The angel comes, and is it not a miracle,
like the wine that turns, to blood, to flesh.
The angel comes, and isn’t she precious,
like the dead pine tree, in the living room,
the tiny house, held together by toxic glue
And I love the eggnog, the more I drink it,
and I love the people, the less I see them
Oh how I miss Christmas, and angels too.
The angel comes, and isn’t she stunning,
like the cut up face, with the flaming grin,
the tiny goblins, hardly no one believe in
And I see toilet paper, flying to the trees,
in Swiss mountains, where fruit is green,
once a year, as the angels on Halloween.
The angel comes, and is it not exacting,
how life dies and breaks, it’s once again.