‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through Lost Lake

not a Freaker was stirring, not even a crier.

The bounties were hung by the merchant with care,

in hopes that Deacon St. John soon would be there.

The campers were nestled all snug in their beds,

while visions of hordes danced in their heads.

And Rikki in her ‘kerchief, and Addy in her cap,

had just settled their brains for a long winter’s nap.

When out at the gate there arose such a clatter,

Iron Mike sprang from his bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window he flew like a flash,

tore open the shutter, and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow

gave the lustre of another time to the bikes below,

when, what to his wondering eyes should appear,

but a drifter bike with lots of gear.

With a bounty hunter, so desperate and foregone,

he knew in a moment it must be St. John.

More rapid than eagles, his enemies they came,

and he shot and shouted and threw molotovs with aim:

“Now Runners! Now Rager!

Now, Rippers and Screamers!

On, Breaker! On, Reacher!

On, Newts and Swarmers!

To the top of the mine!

To the top of the distractor!

Now kill ‘em! Kill ‘em!

Kill ‘em all!”

As dry leaves that before the wild Oregon weather fly,

when he meets with an obstacle, mount to the broken road nearby

so up and around the beaten path he flew,

with the bike full of ears, and St. John too.

And then, in a twinkling, Iron Mike heard

The rumbling and roaring of the engine that could.

As Iron Mike drew his head and was turning around,

through the gate St. John came with a bound.

He was dressed as a drifter, from his head to his foot,

and his clothes were all tarnished with muck and soot.

A bundle of guns he had flung on his back,

and he looked like a villain just opening his pack.

His eyes-how they scolded! His chin, how manly!

His cheeks cut-up, his nose seemed untouched!

His upper lip was covered with hair,

and the beard on his chin was as black as the smoked air.

The handle of his bootknife he held tight in his hand,

and the smell on the blade encircled his head.

He had a defined face and a little bandana,

that waved when he ran, like the fields of a savanna.

He was skinny and fit, a right badass drifter,

and Iron Mike laughed when he saw him, in spite of the bitter.

A heroic deed and a plea for help

soon gave Iron Mike to know he had nothing to dread.

He spoke not word, but went straight to his work,

and filled all his ammo, then turned with a jerk.

And flipping his finger to the side of Skizzo,

and giving a nod, he decided to go.

He sprang to his bike, to Boozer gave a whistle,

and away he sped like the down of a thistle.

But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,

“Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”

---

Santa Claus is Coming to Town: Days Gone Edition

You better watch out, you better not run

Better not shoot, Im telling you why:

Deacon St. John is comin’ for you.

He’s fueling his bike and revving it twice

Gonna find who he needs to take out

Deacon St. John is comin’ for you.

He sees you when you’re hidin’

He knows what camp you’re at

He knows if you’ve stole or killed

So be good for goodness sake

Oh! You better watch out, you better not run

Better not shoot, I’m telling you why:

Deacon St. John is comin’ for you.

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Happy Holidays from The Broken Road!