’Twas two months ere Christmas, I hopped in my car.
I turned the right key and the engine did start.
The lights they did light, but then as if planned:
I heard the tradition I think should be banned.

I grumbled and groaned, put the car into gear.
And drove to the mall, with no hint of cheer.
I walked in the store, and from overhead:
The sound of the season I perfectly dread.

My feet turned and left, my errand unfinished,
My hands on my ears, my spirit diminished.
So off to a bar, to drown my one sorrow,
Hoping and praying: a better tomorrow?

But even this place, it gave me no rest.
In this haven of drink, I still felt much stress.
For blasting out of that big old jukebox
The musical strains bearing down like an ox:

Mariah was singing that same Christmas song!
The thousandth time over and still going strong.
Then right after that (as if right on cue)
Elvis did croon on his Christmas of Blue.

I drank and I sobbed. And I drank and I frowned.
In no sum of beer could this music be drowned.
More rapid than eagles, the tunes! oh they came.
I grimaced and shouted and called them by name!

On Mathis! On Williams! On Crosby and Wham!
On Autry! On Buble! It goes on, this sham…
It’s Band-Aid and Eartha and Chuck Berry too.
By Lennon and Ono, I feel like I’m through.

A song here and there can sometimes be nice.
But twenty-four-seven? Just put me on ice.
At least it ends soon, this annual pain . . .
Then ten months of bliss ere it starts up again.