It was Christmas Day in the workhouse
And the bugs were biting hard.
And the inmates were making merry
On chunks of bread and lard.
The decorations, made by spiders,
Were strewn from wall to wall;
And the words upon the inmates lips
Were: ‘Merry Christmas, one and all!’
They huddled round the fire
Which was hanging in the sky
For things could only get better
Or worse before they’d die.
They told small tales of futures
Where the streets were paved with gold
And the rich men gave out presents
That were wonders to behold.
But, nobody thought that these tales were real
They never believed a one
For the only tale that mattered
Was the one so nearly done.
And that tale they didn’t like to hear
For it was sad and caused them grief
The characters in it had no faith
And the provider was a thief.
So, they stopped the tales
And began to sing
Songs of angry men
Can you hear the songs they sang that day
For they sing them once again.
But, angry men calm down in time
They accept their fate with sighs
And then they sing of other things
The how’s the where’s the why’s.
And voices carry through the ages
Loud, then soft, ‘fore they are gone
And we all live a life in seven stages
If you can get past just one.
And in that workhouse people cried
And laughed a little; some just sat and sighed,
And passed round bread, thin spread with lard
And not a crumb did they discard.
It was Christmas Day in the workhouse
And the bugs were biting hard.
And the inmates were making ‘merry’
On chunks of bread and lard.
