|
|
 |
The Holiday Song
|
Well sit right down my wicked son
And let me tell you a story
About the boy who fell from glory
And how he was a wicked son
This ain't no holiday
But it always turns out this way
Here I am with my hand
He took his sister from his head
And impregnated her on the sheets
And then rolled her up in grass and trees
And they kissed 'till they were dead
This ain't no holiday
But it always turns out this way
Here I am, with my hand
Well sit right down my evil son
And let me tell you a story
About the boy who fell from glory
And how he was a wicked son
This ain't no holiday
But it always turns out this way
Here I am, with my hand
This ain't no holiday
But it always turns out this way
Here I am, with my hand
|
|
|
|
