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Lyrics:

[Verse 1: Male baritone, weary, storytelling]
The lights are on the tree, their colours soft and low
The fire's burning nicely, there's fresh-fallen snow
The table's set for dinner, the pudding's on the boil
A season of good will, of peace, and festive toil...
And yet... a shadow falls across my cheer...

[Verse 2: Male baritone, becoming tense, betrayed tone]
You handed me the package, with a ribbon and a bow
Your smile was full of promise, your eyes were all aglow
I tore the wrapping paper off with barely a contained joy
Thinking of the perfect, well-considered gift, my dear boy...
But my smile... it faded... almost instantly...

[Chorus: Male vocal, rising with dramatic anguish. Children's choir humming "Ooooh" softly in background. Strings swell.]
'Cause that's not what I wanted for Christmas...
No, that's not what I wanted at all...
It's the wrong shade of beige, it's the wrong size, it's the wrong...
...spirit behind the seasonal call...
You asked me what I wanted, I was perfectly, painfully clear...
And that's... not... what I wanted for Christmas this year.

[Bridge: Spoken word over a soft, melancholic jazz flute solo. Tone: deeply disappointed, lecturing.]
It's not the gift itself, you understand. It's the principle. It's the listening. Or rather, the distinct lack of listening. Christmas is a time for giving, yes, but it is also, crucially, a time for accurate giving.

[Chorus: Full choir joins dramatically. Male vocal, full of faux-tragedy and emphasis.]
And that's NOT what I wanted for Christmas!
No, that's NOT what I wanted at all!
It's the wrong shade of beige, it's the wrong size, it's the wrong...
...spirit behind the seasonal call!
You asked me what I wanted, I was perfectly, painfully clear!
And that's... not... what I wanted for Christmas this year!

[Outro: Music softens to only glockenspiel and a single sustained string note. Vocal is quiet, resigned, deeply sarcastic.]
I'll keep it, of course. It's the thought that counts.
[A long, sad pause]
...Apparently, very little thought was counted.
Merry Christmas.
[A final, dissonant chord from the glockenspiel.]

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That's Not What I Wanted for Christmas

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