this hotel is cheap and the pillows stink and there’s not a single thing to say its christmas eve
oh saint nicholas, i know i ain’t in your list, but if you’re listening, i need a bus ticket
i came through montreal, i lost a lot of dough, could find no honest job, so i did some other ones
got into trouble, i had to run or suffer, and then a long road into a long december
over the water and over the border and over the open land to this ramada inn
but no overbooking here, no sort of holy birth, no miracles occurring, no not a creature stirring
oh saint stephen, where is your feast when i, when i so sorely need it? when i haven’t hardly eaten?
but i’d give my food and drink to see my home again, to see my mother’s hand against her apron edge
oh saint christopher, send me a christian word, send me a southern wind, oh send me up to my kin
hear the b’ys singing, through their drunken grinning, of jesus, joseph, mary – i hear their voices carry
carry me home
can any saints hear me? is there any angel near me? if you won’t lift me up then would you send my love?
back to my home? back to my only shelter? where in the awful weather i will be warm and welcome
back to my home