Full Throttle

Twas the night before Christmas and all through the teams,
Not a soul was working, all was calm and serene;
The wind tunnels were quiet, carbon fiber lay unborn,
In hope of a visit from St. Bernie come Christmas morn.

All the drivers were nestled in their villas and yachts,
With visions of wins, and no care for the have-nots;
While team owners scrambled for cash to survive,
St. Bernie just continues to grow and thrive.

When out in the paddock there arose such a clatter,
I leapt from my computer to see what was the matter;
Over boxes and parts in my haste I tore,
To see He approaching, the grizzled old whore!

He burst through the door with hand on hip,
Searching for anyone who dared to give lip;
From a sack on his shoulder stuffed to the brim,
Out popped a lawyer in holiday trim!