It is not nearly Christmas it is
Venice in nineteen seventy one
and there is death in the air.

but sometimes it is nearly and clearly it
sometimes becomes,

ah, there's
mistletoe and
all I do is kiss the
frostbite with nowhere and no one to turn to
nothing but blue crawling through
my veins,

Spain's on the agenda
meeting 1936 with the
death of Federico Lorca

and I'm sort of alive
but
it's still not nearly Christmas.