You won't regret giving a hundred presents
And winding up cash-strapped

You won't regret purchasing twelve boxes of crackers
Though the jokes and gifts are crap

You can cope with her Maj QE2
Droning on and on in her speech

You can cope with another office party
The fourth you'll have in a week

You won't minding eating till you're stuffed
More than that festive bird

You won't mind singing Old Lang Syne
Though you still won't know the words

You could suffer an umpteenth house invasion
From neighbours, family and friends

You could suffer Santa Claus and carol singers
Driving you round the bend

You will just about tolerate a twenty-third mince pie
And your hangovers WILL get better

But till the day you die
You'll ask “Why oh why...
“Did I buy that bloody awful Christmas sweater?”