Santa Flies Tonight

She left Santa for some toy-sales bloke,
Said, “Mate, it’s always all about you.”
But three-six-four he’s grafting by her side,
Dubai to Shenzhen, trailing her through.
Every shop, every market, every stupid little brand,
Holding all the bags while she rinses his card—
Man gets one night just to do his own thing,
And apparently even that was taking the piss.

Santa’s on a rooftop, forty storeys high,
No sack full of presents, no sleigh in the sky.
No bells, no banter, no Christmas cheer,
Just Santa on the ledge going,
“What am I doing here?”

Santa’s on a rooftop, forty storeys high,
Looking at the pavement, looking at the sky.
One bloody night for himself, she still said goodbye—
Now Santa’s on the edge,
Thinking he might fly.
Thinking he might fly.

Spent his whole life giving,
Put the whole world in his hands.
But his heart was only hers—
The one thing no one else could have.

He gave her the only gift
He never gave away,
Now she holds it like it’s nothing,
Like something she can throw away.

Santa’s on a rooftop, forty storeys high,
No sack full of presents, no sleigh in the sky.
No bells, no banter, no Christmas cheer,
Just Santa on the ledge going,
“What am I doing here?”

Santa’s on a rooftop, forty storeys high,
Looking at the pavement, looking at the sky.
One bloody night for himself, she still said goodbye—
Now Santa’s on the edge,
Thinking he might fly.
Thinking he might fly.
Thinking he might fly.