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Kate Rancid

Merry Fucking Christmas

Merry Fucking Christmas

The lights are up around the town,
The weather has got shitty,
The shops have got their trees put up,
It all looks very pretty,
The children smile and jump about,
Their faces flushed and red,
For Christmas time is here again,
The time of year I dread.

There is no peace within my heart,
No magic in my soul,
If the baby Jesus was alive,
I'd throw him down a hole,
I'd kick the Holy Mother's cunt,
Shove Joseph up my arse,
If I could save this blessed earth,
From this stupid yearly farce.

For each and every single year,
That I can still remember,
I've had to bear this awful crap,
Beginning in November,
And finishing sometime in June,
When I can take no more,
Of finding giftwrap in my shoes,
And needles on my floor.

It starts with that forsaken task,
Of compiling lists of presents,
For all my 'dearly cherished kin',
That bunch of fucking peasants.
The bastard rellies bleed me dry,
They do it every year,
Whilst sniggering amongst themselves,
It right gives me the fear.

Like witches in a firey cave,
Their lists already writ,
They cackle strangely as they buy,
Huge piles of awsome shit,
A nasty jumper? Dreadful socks?
All sizes way too titchy,
Or maybe some cheap perfume,
Just to make my skin all itchy.

Poison chocolates from some shop,
Where all things cost a quid,
Revolting slippers, fearsome pink,
Handmade by some blind flid,
Or ghastly biscuits in a tin,
That taste a lot like soap,
Which I'd rather cook my tits than eat,
Or beat myself with rope.

And when the presents, still unwrapped,
Are safely in the bin,
On Christmas morning, half asleep,
Yet half pissed-up on gin,
I'll go about the business,
Of preparing a great feast,
For fifteen hundred people,
I care not for in the least.

The turkey is a wretched bird,
Its flesh brings me no mirth,
And sprouts could be the foulest thing,
E'er dug up from this earth.
Melon balls are tastless filth,
They irk my constitution,
I'd rather fork my eye balls out,
Or take up prostitution.

Christmas pudding can fuck off,
And crackers don't amuse me,
And sherry trifle's not that great,
(Unless it's very boozy),
And Christmas telly's utter shite,
Please drown me in a pond,
Instead of forcing me, again,
To watch James fucking Bond.

And in the corner of the room,
You know what there will be,
Bedecked with lights and bits of crap,
There stands the Christmas tree.
A fucking tree,
A fucking tree,
Indoors. It isn't sane,
It spreads its needles far and wide,
To bring my poor feet pain.

So if by chance you pass me by,
At some point in December,
I'd kindly ask you this one thing -
I hope you'll please remember,
Don't wish me 'Happy Christmas'
Because Yule is but a farce,
And I'll grab the nearest sodding tree,
And ram it up your arse.

Kate Rancid (b. 1973)