It’s winter time, and there’s a need to be afraid.
It’s winter time, we let in Bob, and our fate is made.
And in our world of plenty, comes a certain oily stench.

It’s a fucking bandaid thing,

At Christmas time.

But say a swear, swear for the other ones,
At bandaid-time, it’s hard but they’re having fun.
There’s a world outside their window, it’s a world they dread and fear
Where they could go out and help you, send some money out this year,
But the singers that all sing here are the modern, singing doom.
And tonight they’re reaching out to guilt-trip you.

No peace and joy this christmas, in Westfield.
The only hope they’ll have is being on Five.

Where comfort is to hear,
That their name is on the air,

How can they keep their name in print at all?

Here’s to you,
Raise a glass to everyone.
Here’s to them,
And all their years to come.

Keep their names in papers after all.

Feed our world – Let them know you’ll buy this shit again

Feel our world – Let them avoid helping naught but them.

Heal our world – Thirty years lets do this all again

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