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How cheery, how gay, our Christmas display,
With colours all blinking and bright!
The presents are spread by the foot of the bed,
And there they lie still every night.
The tree that was green has lost all its sheen,
And needles are spread on the floor.
The candles are spent, the cards are all bent,
In a pile that has grown by the door.
The charming old fellow has gone sort of yellow,
As he sat by the faulty gas fire.
And now he is dead with slime for a head,
And his house has a smell that is dire.
The crackers are green as the other cuisine,
The turkey is turning to mush.
The cheese is all black and starting to crack,
And all through the house there’s a hush.
The curtains are drawn, the neighbours are gone,
And so he still sits all alone.
The beetles are fat as they feast on his cat,
For all that is left are some bones.
The blue lights are flashing as policemen are bashing,
Their way through that decorous door,
But all they will find is some tangerine rind,
And a cake that has started to spore.
And Christmas remains with the smell and the stains,
Though its April outside in the street.
And the colours are gold but that’s just the mould
Where Santa’s old corpse has now leaked.
And to all a good night as you flee from the sight,
Of a day that’s gone terribly wrong.
So be of good cheer as your own end draws near,
For one things is true, when your lips turn to blue,
The neighbours will moan of your pong.
With colours all blinking and bright!
The presents are spread by the foot of the bed,
And there they lie still every night.
The tree that was green has lost all its sheen,
And needles are spread on the floor.
The candles are spent, the cards are all bent,
In a pile that has grown by the door.
The charming old fellow has gone sort of yellow,
As he sat by the faulty gas fire.
And now he is dead with slime for a head,
And his house has a smell that is dire.
The crackers are green as the other cuisine,
The turkey is turning to mush.
The cheese is all black and starting to crack,
And all through the house there’s a hush.
The curtains are drawn, the neighbours are gone,
And so he still sits all alone.
The beetles are fat as they feast on his cat,
For all that is left are some bones.
The blue lights are flashing as policemen are bashing,
Their way through that decorous door,
But all they will find is some tangerine rind,
And a cake that has started to spore.
And Christmas remains with the smell and the stains,
Though its April outside in the street.
And the colours are gold but that’s just the mould
Where Santa’s old corpse has now leaked.
And to all a good night as you flee from the sight,
Of a day that’s gone terribly wrong.
So be of good cheer as your own end draws near,
For one things is true, when your lips turn to blue,
The neighbours will moan of your pong.
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