Bethlehem is bolted shut

and there no jobs in this England

the innkeepers hold cardboard doors

now he been on his bike so long

that say no room and we full up

for twenty, forty miles and more

an angel’s crying for her mum

and left and right his cycle turn

the shepherd cannot find his flock

where wise men have all been and gone

a donkey’s ears have fallen off

and I have seen his ears prick up

while fathers laugh and mothers blub

at mention of the foreign man

that night is peeling off the wall

who brings the living wages down

as heaven crashes to the floor

and I can’t bear to watch my own

when everyone holds up their phone

but there’s no call for you, my son,

and Bethlehem is bolted shut

for there no jobs in this England