Christmas time is here, by golly.
Disapproval would be folly.
Deck the halls with hunks of holly.
Fill the cup and don't say when.
Kill the turkeys, ducks, and chickens,
Mix the punch, drag out the Dickens.
Even though the prospect sickens,
Brother, here we go again.
On Christmas Day you can't get sore.
Your fellow man you must adore.
There's time to rob him all the more
The other three hundred and sixty-four.
Relations, sparing no expense, 'll
Send some useless old utensil
Or a matching pen and pencil.
("Just the thing I need! How nice!")
It doesn't matter how sincere it
Is, nor how heartfelt the spirit,
Sentiment will not endear it.
What's important is the price.
Hark, the Herald Tribune sings,
Advertising wondrous things.
God rest you merry, merchants,
May you make the Yuletide pay.
Angels we have heard on high
Tell us to go out and buy!
So let the raucous sleighbells jingle.
Hail our dear old friend Kriss Kringle,
Driving his reindeer across the sky.
Don't stand underneath when they fly by.
>Advertising wondrous things.
This line bangs
"In 2001, Lehrer taught his last mathematics class, on the topic of infinity, and retired from academia.[21] He has remained in the area, and in 2003 said he still "hangs out" around the University of California, Santa Cruz."
via Wikipedia.
But you must not get sad!
Rich people love poverty
A fried goose upsets people's stomachs
Dolls are not fashionable any more
Tomorrow Santa Claus will come
Just, only next door.
A week to Christmas, cards of snow and holly,
Gimcracks in the shops,
Wishes and memories wrapped in tissue paper,
Trinkets, gadgets and lollipops
And as if through coloured glasses
We remember our childhood's thrill
Waking in the morning to the rustling of paper,
The eiderdown heaped in a hill
Of logs and dogs and bears and bricks and apples
And the feeling that Christmas Day
Was a coral island in time where we land and eat our lotus
But where we can never stay.
There was a star in the East, the magi in their turbans
Brought their luxury toys
In homage to a child born to capsize their values
And wreck their equipoise.
A smell of hay like peace in the dark stable -
Not peace however but a sword
To cut the Gordian knot of logical self-interest,
The fool-proof golden cord;
For Christ walked in where no philosopher treads
But armed with more than folly,
Making the smooth place rough and knocking the heads
Of Church and State together.
In honour of whom we have taken over the pagan
Saturnalia for our annual treat
Letting the belly have its say, ignoring
The spirit while we eat.
And Conscience still goes crying through the desert
With sackcloth round his loins:
A week to Christmas - hark the herald angels
Beg for copper coins.