Ah, yes. Christmas. Such simplicity, such joy. To be a child...in the sixties. I remember it well. I recall too that old tune and the lyrics of Allan Sherman's Camp Granada, but then it all seems to have gone wrong...
Dearest mudda
dearest fadda
why at Christmas
must I share with
my granfadda
he keeps gassing
he keeps snoring
Why me? Why me? I'm imploring
What's so different
about yule-tide
that I must set off
to one side
teacher's warning
of old-man dangers
to never accept gifts from any strangers
Dearest Fadda
dearest mudda
why so different
from my brudda
he shares with auntie
he's not complaining
tho' she sleeps in py-jams scanty
why keep on with
this tradition
while all year
I, strangers run from
please remind me, dearest parents
where actually do babies come from
It's the 24th
of December
I am to be visited
(as I remember)
while I'm sleeping
some old guy
into my bedroom will be creeping
Wait a minute
Christmas morning
I awaken
as day is dawning
in the half-light
can it be right
that in the night
my stocking are with presents yawning
Dearest Fadda
dearest Mudda
I feel better now
that it's ova
and please
say thanks to Santa
for doin' more than
any udda coulda
Merry Christmas.
