The fruit cake is all eaten and the gifts are all unwrapped.
The Christmas trees are compost and the wrapping paper's scrapped.
Peace and goodwill are over, and it's time again for war.
Baby, it's not Christmas anymore.
Some mistletoe won't save you from a sharp slap on the cheek.
Society will frown if you drink Irish cream all week.
There's no-one giving out free sweets in any shop or store.
Baby, it's not Christmas anymore.
The magic is all disappeared, the twinkle is gone out
And a stranger singing at your door must be a drunken lout.
So check that pile of invoices, and mop the showroom floor.
Baby, it's not Christmas anymore.
Note: I have never actually ever seen anyone kissing under mistletoe, at Christmas or any other time. But I'm supposing for the sake of poetry that it does happen.
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