One week 'til Christmas
and all we've got is rain.
We've had clouds all year
but least the sky don't hang so low in spring.
Where the sun goes, we all know.
If we could only drive a hole
through the wooly skies,
the day won't feel so much like night.
We're hanging baubles from a tree
while the ones outside we're selling off
to oil companies.
The fire's burning underground
but the warmth's not felt on every
side of town.
This side of town,
we all know what hope lies
under the snow.
Maybe some things will change
when it all melts away.
But time won't move so slowly
when we're buying up the hillsides
stringing lights from every mountain's peak,
drained out all the oceans,
stole land from under someone's feet.
While driving 'round a parking lot,
not thinking 'bout emissions,
we're numbed by advertising
and spending 'cause we're guilted.
Can anybody see past the glow
of the Christmas machine?
Turn their nose toward a screen
to see who liked their post about the snow.
Stretching out above clouds of gray
on the morning of Christmas Day,
beyond our sea of white,
the sun burns so blind, so bright.
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