Above a stable, shining bright,
Was a warm and glowing Northern light.
A babe was born upon this day,
Amongst the beasts and scratchy hay.
The son of God, the prophecy said,
A man whose story shall be read
By clowns and fools from across the lands,
Who were searching for some helping hand;
Some means of grabbing minds and souls
And squeezing them into collection bowls.

Now two thousand years of blood, war and tears
Have forged those words into mind and sword.

Till now when shines a different light
One that needs no bend or fight.
Man will follow this new path
And lift the threat of God's own wrath.
But there is one thing that we must keep,
Before we burn the scripted heap.
Man's only gift born in the hay,
Was the magical gift of Christmas day.
When Christmas trees are shining bright,
With baubles, stars and Christmas lights.
And presents wrapped with greatest care
Are waiting for an excited tear.
On Christmas morning as snow falls,
Children sing and deck the halls.
For Santa's been to spread the joy,
To every little girl and boy.

So thank you Mr. Jesus Lord,
Not for all the blood and swords;
But for the presents, snow and Christmas cheer
That come upon us every year.

Alright Mr. Weegie,
Calm the ******* beans,
I know it's ******* windy,
Just put on some jeans.

I can see it on your shoulder,
That masssive ******* chip,
That makes you think you're sorer,
Than a broken ******* hip.

That make you think you know,
About every ******* thing.
"What's that you say? Oh no no no,
I'M THE BANTER KING."

Your life's the ******* hardest,
And your car's the ******* best.
Your ****** dump is bigger
And better than the rest.

OH silly ******* weegie,
Just step off your box,
They're all the same everywhere,
Great ones, bores and *****.

This world is not against you,
Your city's not the best,
It's great I won't refuse you,
Just equal to the rest.

For it's man and mind that makes a life,
Not buildings, blood and steel.
And the mind contains the greatest strife,
So shut up and eat your meal.

Every night I go to bed,
Stuck with what he said.
My mind is just the same,
I'm dreaming he's in pain.

Paid with public money,
The ****** isn't funny,
If I could have my way,
He'd be sliced and diced today.

I'd collect together all his cash,
Every penny of his stash,
And spend it all on sausage skins,
To wrap him up and cover him.

I'd have him put in sausage form,
And eat him up to keep me warm.
I'd have him smoked and vacuum packed,
And placed upon the market rack.

Folk would come from everywhere,
Even those who didn't care,
All they'd need is just one joke,
To make them wish he'd never spoke.

What pleasure there would be,
In watching my TV,
No channel'd be a stranger,
For there would be no danger.

So I'd make myself a nightcap,
And a big fat sausage bap.
And I'd thank the BBC,
For football's finally free.

With broken ****** eyes he looked at me
And stared at me.
With legs and hands so tightly squeezed
I could not see.

Then my arm ran up his arm
And lifted up the hairs.
Eye and eye were met then wet,
I hated to care.

And then a whisper in my ear,
Familiar and loud.
And then the walk I'm used to,
With him, on the ground.

Eye and arm and hand and blood,
All became one.
Love and life and hate and blood,
All became one.

Between his thumb and finger he
held up the stone and watched
the sunlight drift along the
smooth surface and then drop
towards the ground.

He eased his squeeze and watched
as his stone fell from his hand
and bounced from his steel toe
into the cold streaming water
surrounding him.

Then he bent over looking for
some place to wash the dirt
from between his fingers and
to wash the blood from under
his eyes.

Then there was no water,
and there was no dirt,
and there was no blood.

He drifted back towards the path
and made his way along the path
and he tried to make his boots
push deep into the ground with
each step.

There were some rocks at the
sides of the path which lay beside
each other and laid on top of
each other between the grass and
the dirt.

He tried to avoid walking on the
rocks at the same time as making
sure he looked at every last one:
the size, the shades, the colour,
the lines.

Then he looked at the sky,
the rain fell on his face,
and he missed him.

Blind he threw himself to the ground
and threw his face in to the ground
and tried to scrape his fingers
through the dirt so that some
dirt might stick.

There he laid turning his body
in the dirt sifting through it
with his hand holding some up to
the light looking for some
trace of something.

But there was nothing amongst this,
none of it stuck between his fingers,
none of it sat thick upon his lungs,
none of it was big enough to hold up
to the sky.

So he squeezed his eyes shut,
blood ran down his cheeks,
and he missed him.