It was the night before Christmas, and all through the store
Every creature was stirring, stampeding through the door
Through the loudspeakers, the Christmas music did blare.
To ask for a new station, none of the employees did dare.
The boss was a sociopath, manic depressive or worse
To ask him for a favor, “YOU’RE FIRED,” he’d curse.
So soldier on, the good employees would do
Stocking beer, stocking liquor, telling jerkoff customers, “Fuck you.”
The night drags on long, the customers keep coming
While over the radio for the 30th time that day, the Little Drummer Boy is drumming
Then the sun goes down and the customers thin out, you’d think
But it’s only six o’clock, and all of them still must drink
They buy whisky and gin, vodka and beer
You’d wonder if there were any other liquor stores near
Then the usuals come in and the employees are almost done for
Because the guy that came in is here to stock HIS liquor store
The decorations are up, and the music is on
But Christmas isn’t over yet, it’s barely begun.
As the night finally winds down, the lights are turned off
The employees punch out as they stifle a scoff.
Merry Christmas, O World, and what can we say?
We’d be in a better mood if we didn’t have to come back the next day.
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