Originally Posted by WolfAtTheDoor

Staring into the bottom of a dirty glass
In a quiet, cold pub
Sat the wrinkled old fella,
Heart bereft of love
Counting his grievances,
On both of his hands,
was 4 fingers too short,
that poor old man

On Christmas eve,
They sit up all night
Them two young lovers
Oh, he envies the sight.
They unwrap their presents,
When the clock strikes 12
Fall asleep in each others arms
It sends him straight to hell.

He’s the fascist son,
Of a war been and gone
And though he has justice
He doesn’t feel like he won.
And if you wish him well, my love,
You won’t like the reply,
For his words can send shivers
To the tip of your spine
And he’ll drink his ale,
To whoever is concerned,
Til his face turns pale
And he leaves this cold world.