‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.

The consumerism of Christmas had laid our hearts bare
on the altar of materialism by which most Americans swear.

Clement Clark Moore and Santa have sped us toward doom
with their visions of gifts they are such buffoons.
This sacred day becoming a joke
so all we do is slowly go broke
buying gifts like cds and toys
and not teaching the real purpose for the girls and the boys.

its no wonder they grow to be disillusioned
when they have been taught such terrible confusion.

we tell them about Jesus, but teach them about a fat man
we tell them about a manger, but on sin we place a ban

dirty things like that are not important a bit
at a time about joy and peace and all that shit

This time of year we should remember the start
of the healing of the human heart

The baby born this day was about a renewal of life
This kid would end all human strife.

there was confusion about what he came to bring
but now we know he will be our king
he will give new life and fix every hurt
when he comes back to restore even the dirt.

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that by morning they’d sag with our share.

And under the tree there were presents galore,
Like precariously teetering towers of yore.

From Robin, and Peter, and old Mom and Dad,
From each to each other there were gifts to be had,

For Peter, a camera, and Robin, some skis,
For Father a novel, and Mother, a Wii.

But the best gift of all, they were heard to declare,
Is to gather together, in love and in care.

Yowling and buzzing, a song of insect and cat,
A hideous, horrible, heinous Hillsong, if you could imagine that,
“Lord this, Lord that, baby Jebus be praised,
Believe us, The Word is Truth. You’ll be shocked and amazed!”

They lurch through the neighbourhood, brains rotted beyond repair,
Faces contorted in the rigor of brain-death, but oddly well-groomed hair,
“Oh no!”, cried the mouse, its tiny face a vast wasteland of pain,
It had spotted the worst, “It’s those fucking Carolers again!”

In youth, their songs were beautiful and their meanings complete,
But like last seasons flowers, they withered under Time’s feet,
The words have not changed, nor the exuberant cheer,
But the meanings are now senseless, nonsense now clear

As singers and joculars their talent is mostly unfaulted,
As writers and artists, in no way exalted,
The topic of Jesus is as tedious as the source,
Even without His countless minions flogging the horse,

Bring on the songs I say, but stay your trembling hand
If, frothing at the mouth, you lead a Christian band,
If by acclaim you mean praise and by praise you mean pray,
You can keep your droning, warbling tunes far, far away.

Bible stories of old were recited with care,
to consider a mythical Jesus, they did not dare.

Thus we can have a good night’s sleep.