Who's that knocking on the window?
Who's that standing at the door?
What are all those presents,
Lying on the kitchen floor?
Who is the smiling stranger
With hair as white as gin?
What is he doing with the children?
And who could have let him in?
Why has he rubies on his fingers,
A cold, cold crown on his head?
Why, when he caws his carol,
Does the salty snow run red?
Why does he ferry my fireside
As a spider on a thread,
His fingers made of fuses
And his tongue of gingerbread?
Why does the world before him
Melt in a million suns?
Why do his yellow, yearning eyes
Burn like saffron buns?
Watch where he comes walking
Out of the Christmas flame,
Dancing, double-talking:
Herod is his name.