'Twas the Night Before Daytona

'Twas the night before Daytona, when all through the track,

Not a driver was stirring, not even Jamie Mac.

The fire suits were hung in the motor homes with care,

In hopes that the honorary starter soon would be there.

The drivers were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of a checkered flag danced in their heads.

And Newman in his helmet, and Logano in his gloves,

Had just settled down for a much awaited nap.

When out on the track there arose such a clatter,

Mark Martin sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window he flew like a flash,

Tore open the curtains and threw up the sash.

The moon on the smoothness on the new-laid asphalt

Gave the luster of mid-day to objects below.

When, what to his wondering eyes should appear,

His competitors out on the track, practicing their burnouts.

With little old team owners, so lively and quick,

He knew in a moment it must be Gibbs and Rick.

More rapid than cars his drivers they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;

"Now, Jimmie!  Now, Dale! Now, Jeff and Kahne!

On, Denny! On Biffle! On Kyle and Bayne!

Top the top of the charts! To the front of the pack!

Now drive away! Drive away! Drive away, all!"

                                          As the still lake before the green flag fly,

When met with debris, they move to the side.
So up to the top of the charts they drove,

With a car full of gas and four fresh tires.

And then, in a twinkling, he heard on the front stretch,

The screeching and swerving of each little tire.

As he drew in his head, and taking once last glance at the track,

Down the front stretch walked Mr. Keselowski.
He was dressed in blue, from his head to his foot,
And his firesuit was all tarnished with oil and sweat;

A bundle of Miller Lites he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.

His green eyes were twinkling; his smile so wide;

His cheeks were rosy, his nose a straight line,

He stood as straight as a board at over six feet.

The beard of his chin is almost non-existent;

He had the confidence of a rockstar

Which sometimes was seen as arrogant.

He is skinny and fit, a happy new champion,

And Mark laughed when he saw him, in spite of himself;

A wink of his eye and a twist of a cap,

Soon gave him to know he had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but sipped from the bottle

And handed out beers to the rest of the drivers; then turned with a smirk.

Throwing a bottle of Miller Lite in the garbage,

And giving a nod, and a tip of his cap,

Brad walked to his race car, to give the drivers a whistle,
And to their motor homes they all went like the down of a thistle.

But Mark heard them exclaim, as they walked out of sight,

"Happy Daytona to all, and to all a good race!"