Sentimental fool, have you missed it again
Christmas is coming with its white balls of flame
Gussied up and stay pressed, the room is in trim
It's not so wondrous, you're indentured to it

Your lust, so close to torture
With everything you want

Shaking towards shelter and vodka on ice
Looking for words to Auld Lang Syne
God grant us grace in working the room
God grant me patience to just make it

Cocktailed moneymaker
Ice breaking

Your tongue, so close to torture
With everything it seeks
An empty-handed breeze
An empty head it grabs at
As if it could be real
You say you'll leave it up to me
I can't stand to hear you speak
Or to listen to you sleep

Christmas is coming with his bright balls of flame