For every Christmas merry, every Christmas gay.
There's just another Christmas, just another day.
For every snowy landscape, with colored lights so bright.
There's a dirty, rain slicked cityscape, crying in the night.
Or a windswept hovel, lost in a distant land.
Eking out existence day to day, in a sea of sand.
For every family gathered, singing praises on high.
Someone sick and shattered, waits until they die.
In a land of plenty, gifts are wasted on the youth.
To those so cold and starving, "Peace on Earth," is not the truth.
The myth of Christmas merry, cast upon the earth.
Is one of wealth and plenty, not of what it's worth.
To the downtrodden and weary, dreary Christmas brings no mirth.
Only poverty in a distant land, and a lowly birth.
Copyright 2000 © Ronald W. Hull