There's a man that's not so jolly
dressed in blood with strings attached
white fur trim and silver shackles
boots of dreary, dismal black.

Rides a sleigh of bone-white reindeer
whips them just as he is whipped
by the arm of blank-faced sales -
doesn't get one lousy tip.

There's a singing, chanting snow-man
mourning for the melted dead
when the sun shines in the morning:
nothing but the ice they bled.

Candied children seeping chocolate
drowning in the liquid stench
bodies limp with festive wreckage
waiting for the last event.

Woolly ropes of Christmas jumpers
looped and knotted at the throat
round the necks of carol singers
singing till they keel and choke.

Then the sprigs of velvet holly
kick their legs and stamp their feet
dance with but a show-girl's honour
reading cheap lines from a sheet.

And the man who's not so jolly
laughs so kindly for the crowd
underneath his hat he's hurting
the red sky his scarlet shroud.