Away in a cardboard box, no roof for a bed.
Factories from the realms of GB, fling your filth o'er all the earth.
Good England men rejoice, Sven-Goran Eriksson's in charge.
How far is it to Baghdad? Not very far in a jet fighter.
I'm dreaming of a wet Christmas - that's global warming for you.
I saw three ships come sailing in - and that's navy cuts for you.
It came upon the wireless clear, that Ketchup song of old.
Jingle tills, jingle tills, credit cards all the way.
O come Tory faithful, disheartened and defeated.
O little town of Birmingham, how grim we see thee lie.
Once in loyal Belfast city, stood some gunmen head-to-head.
See amid the wrong kind of snow, Connex trains are running slow.
Silent night, warehouse site, police have banned the rave tonight.
The first Noel the public did see, was a small bearded DJ on evening TV.
While shepherds watched their clones by night.