the long road gets narrow, gets narrow

the long road gets narrow, gets narrow gets narrow

the long road gets narrow, gets narrow gets narrow

a greedy child with an impossible list,

Santa Claus holds his head over his desk

His eyes are worn and there's crevices in his face;

wrinkles wrap around his forehead.

He's almost appalled and he fights disgust,

a tear escapes from one of his eyes.

It's all Me, Me, Me, these days, he sighs.

Come to bed, says Mrs. Claus.

He looks at his Egg Nog with pensive eyes,

then over to his loving wife.