Christmas Song

(It is set to music; only the lyrics here, though, I'm afraid . . .)

There are brown tyre treads in the virgin snow
and your skin turns blue in the cold wind's blow,
ah but you ain't got nowhere else to go,
and you're on your own on these streets, lady,
you're on your own down here.

There's no shepherds in these parts, my dear,
there’s no herald angels singing clear,
and the wise men stay home for a warm and a beer,
and you're on your own on these streets, lady,
you're on your own down here.

The sky is black and there ain't no stars,
and the only lights are the cruising cars
and the neon signs of those downbeat bars,
and you're on your own on these streets, lady,
you're on your own down here.

Yet I remember a night in a time of old
when the sky exploded in burning gold,
and the songs were sung and the stories told,
and the earth and the heaven were a single fold,
and they called these streets salvation, lady,
this place was Bethlehem.