Bethlehem is bolted shut

and there no jobs in this England

The innkeepers hold cardboard doors

and 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 he has turned his cycle round

The shepherd cannot find his flock

and wise men have all been and gone

The donkey’s ears have fallen off

and I have seen his ears stand

While fathers laugh and mothers blub

at mention of the foreign man

The night is peeling off the wall

who undercuts the living down

As heaven crashes to the stage

and I can’t bear to watch my own

All captured by the mobile phone

but there’s no call for you, my son,

For Bethlehem is bolted shut

and there no jobs in this England.