Chri$tma$
As St. Joseph and the Virgin
Sleep nestled in the hay
In creeps a fat man dressed in red
To steal the Christ child away
He nails the child to a cross of gold
Where no one will think to look
"This holiday will be all mine now!"
Laughed the jolly elfin crook
God rest ye merry merchants
God rest ye merry merchants
Tommy and Andy get ready for bed
While visions of playstation dance in their heads
Their stockings are hung by the chimney with care
But more important is the tree and the presents placed there
Bring your credit card, Jeanette, Isabella
Bring your credit card, and plenty of cash
Dash through the aisles
All over the store
There's bedlam in the toy department
Feel the urge to spend more
You can't leave yet
Your list isn't done
You must spend til it hurts
It's not about fun
The spirit of Christmas
Is not about joy
It's about buying
And getting nice toys
Kyrie among shoppers
Kyrie among shoppers
On that day after Thanksgiving
Early in the morning
The malls, their doors thrown open wide
There is no room to move inside
This is not the joy of season's past
Dear God, why couldn't childhood last
Christmas used to be such fun
Now I wish it was all undone
And return back to our innocence
With gold and myrrh and frankincense
O come, o come Emmanuel
And ransom captive poet's soul
That mourns in lonely exile here,
Until the Son of God appear
Every yule season
We commit holy treason
Going through the motions
Like lost ships on the ocean
My God tell me why
On earth did You die
For this race of humanity
It cries of insanity
Joseph dearest, Joseph mine
Help me save the child divine
God still loves thee and all thine
In Heaven above,
So prays the mother Mary
Is there any end to this desecration
Is there any hope for this lost nation
At the altar I kneel and give my utmost
To the remembrance of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost
Whence from Heaven all three came as one
In a Bethlehem stable as St. Mary's Son
But with the woes of sin and strife
the world has suffered long;
beneath the angel strain have rolled
two thousands years of wrong;
and man, at war with man, hears not
the love song which they bring;
O hush the noise, ye men of strife,
and hear the angels sing.
For, lo! the days are hastening on,
by prophet bards foretold,
when with the ever-circling years,
comes round the age of gold,
when peace shall over all the earth
its ancient splendours fling,
and the whole world give back the song
which now the angels sing.
And as I wake this coming year
On this once solemn morn
I'll again be of good cheer
For Christ our Savior is born
Copyright ©2002 David Albert Campbell
Unknown "funky swordsman" Merry Christmas!
- 16 years, 4 days ago
