Here’s a song, here’s a gift
for the day after Christmas
When the presents have been opened
And your spirit has crashed.
When all the colored lights are turned off
And the yule log is an ember
And you’ve returned that crap to K-Mart
And the tree is in the trash.You’ve got to hold on, hold on
To the season’s inspiration:
More than a sweet memory,
More than yuletide cheer.
He’s the Son, he’s the one
He’s the wondrous incarnation.
Makes each day a little holiday,
Makes holy each new year.Now the Christmas snow has melted
And the mundane days, they roll by;
“Silent Night”‘s been silenced
And the angel choir is gone,
But you’ll still hear them singing
If you will only listen.
They sing every day is Christmas,
It’s Christmas all year longFa la la la, la la la la la
Baby Jesus is now boxed up
And the wise men aren’t so smart;
All they can do is hibernate and dream there in the dark
Of the countless trips to Bethlehem
And one they’ll make again.
But most time they spend in boxes
Where the starlight can’t get in.Here’s a song, here’s a gift
For the day after Christmas
When the credit card’s been maxed out
And the bills are piling high.
When the children are less grateful
And the wife is tired and worried;
Nat King Cole’s worn out his welcome
and you’re fat on pumpkin pie.You’ve got to hold on, hold on
To the season’s inspiration:
More than a sweet memory,
More than yuletide cheer.
He’s the Son, he’s the one
He’s the wondrous incarnation.
Makes each day a little holiday,
Makes holy each new year.Fa la la la, la la la la la
These are the lyrics to a song by Terry Taylor, primary songwriter for the Lost Dogs. It’s a sobering look at life after the special day. True to Taylor’s recent songwriting style, there are laugh lines every other sentence or so, and a beguiling simplicity in the phrasing and delivery. But the high point of the song is in the slow bridge, which he delivers almost as spoken words against a minimalist guitar strum. “Baby Jesus is now boxed up” is the introduction to a terse meditation on the decorative nativity-scene wise men, who “aren’t so smart” after the holiday when they’re crammed back into the garage: “All they can do is hibernate and dream there in the dark of the countless trips to Bethlehem, and one they’ll make again. But most time they spend in boxes where the starlight can’t get in.”
“Hold on to the season’s inspiration” is a sentimental cliche that, even if it makes it past your lips as a living thought, surely dies in your listener’s ear. And a realist (not to say pessimist) like Terry Taylor is probably not trying to write a song that breaks that emotional blockade for you. But the structure of the chorus shows that “the season’s inspiration” is “the Son…. the blessed incarnation,” not to be confused with the baby Jesus that can be boxed up with the starlight-starved wise men. He is “the one” who “makes holy each new year,” and is the one you’ve got to hold on to.