It’s not true
that Christmas makes me sick
I’m moved by the mother and the child,
the donkey and the ox
the problem is a bomb explodes
in the night of peace
the problem is the King’s message
panders to sentimental populism
The stable at Bethlehem
is a virtual hideout
but instead of nougat this winter
I eat some shit
some liver wrapped in silver foil
and Gaspar gives me coal
instead of a bike
I hope it doesn’t scorch
the heat of the fireplace
You’ve got to laugh when it’s your turn
although it makes me cry
Sweetheart, you don’t want to kill me
Sweetheart, I know only too well
who pays and who receives
who practices voodoo
who fills up the bins
at your new year’s eve party
Joseph got angry
with the father of the baby Jesus
I wrote this for you: so fa do re mi
you'll find it on Father Christmas’ tree
How can I tell you ‘no’
when you know it’s ‘yes’
the couscous knows the spot of pus
tattooed on your skin
Satan is a mafia boss keeping time
Infiltrator in the Christmas supermarket
It’s not true…