Friday, December 9, 2011
listening to Barbra Streisand singing have yourself a merry little christmas
all our troubles will be out of sight?
faithful friends who are dear to us
will be near to us?
the good ol days?
give me a frikken break!
yeah, yeah-humbug and all that frikken nonsense
every year we fall for this, buy into it
lock stock and barrel
we mace and punch our way through black friday for that x-box 17 (don't worry, there will be)
we empty our wallets hoping to buy happiness
the first hour of Christmas music is nice
the second hour brings nausea
the third, rage
mel torme wrote the christmas song in july; in Arizona!
jack frost nipping at your nose?
scorpions stinging at your toes
i don't mean to bitch
God how i want it to be so!
every year i ante up hoping i'll get it right
but i've lived too long
seen too much
the pogues are the only ones who sang christmas honestly
merry christmas, you horses arse!
i am glad we're such a hopeful people
hopeful being a euphemism for gullible
but this emptiness, this hole, this longing, loneliness
most of us harbour
like a virus that has seen one too many antibiotics
it has learned to turn the tables
using the cure to its advantage
and so we fall for it
thinking, maybe, just maybe, we just need more
more music, more lights, more egg nog, more presents
MORE MORE MORE!
but the more we are, the less we become
let's see einstein solve that one
but don't cross me off your christmas list just yet
i'm a child at heart and i remember the times
before the virus grew herculean
and i'll try
and i'll wish upon stars
but i can't assuage the fear
that come january
the only one merry
will be the shopkeeper off to the bahamas
(jus so ya know, my spellcheck isnt working again and i'm a lousy speller)