He wasn't into the season he said.
The past had wrapped him up blue.
But now I'm getting into his head.
Like nothing he ever knew.
Baby's hanging the lights up high.
Singing the words to each song.
Drinking wassail when evening's nigh
and the Christmas moon grows long.
His yuletide spirit holds no doubt.
For that I am to blame!
In the snowdrifts we laugh and shout.
He'll never be the same!
Copyright © Deb Wilson