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I knew of two sisters whose name it was Christmas |
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And one was named Dawn of course, the other one was named Eve |
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I wonder if they grew up hating the season |
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The good will that lasts till the Feast of Saint Stephen |
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For that is the time to eat, drink, and be merry |
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Till the beer is all spilled and the whiskey has flowed |
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And the whole family tree you neglected to bury |
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Are feeding their faces until they explode |
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There'll be laughter and tears over Tia Marias |
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Mixed up with that drink made from girders |
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'Cause it's all we've got left as they draw their last breath |
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Ah, it's nice for the kids, as you finally get rid of them |
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In the Saint Stephen's Day Murders |
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Uncle is garglin' a heart-breaking air |
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While the babe in his arms pulls out all that remains of his hair |
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And we're not drunk enough yet to dare criticize |
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The great big kipper tie he's about to baptize |
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With his gin-flavoured whiskers and kisses of sherry |
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His best Crimble shirt slung out over the shop |
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While the lights from the Christmas tree blow up the telly |
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His face closes in like an old cold pork chop |
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And the carcass of the beast left over from the feast |
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May still be found haunting the kitchen |
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And there's life in it yet, we may live to regret |
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When the ones that we poisoned stop twitchin' |
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There'll be laughter and tears over Tia Marias |
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Mixed up with that drink made from girders |
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'Cause it's all we've got left as they draw their last breath |
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Ah, it's nice for the kids, as you finally get rid of them |
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(rid of them) |
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In the Saint Stephen's Day Murders |
