As the nights draw in, and the air begins to chill, A creature stirs from its slumber, from inside a secret hill, "Time to wake up" it says, with a stretch and a yawn, For the first of December is this dawn ...
...Supermarkets, radio stations, and tv commercials beckon, To itself it thinks, "No new albums this year, I reckon", For now and forever, let it be as it is every winter day, Your ears filled with the sound, of Michael Bublé.
Children, parents, come one and all, For now, with the passing of the season of Fall, We find ourselves listening, brow in a frown, For the one we call Bublé, he is coming to town.
Into the forest he comes, rubbing sleep from his eyes, "The people will love me", he thinks with a sigh, Never wrong has he been, for soon we will see, The people have little option to do without he.
From boxes and drawers, the recordings have been found, No new have to be bought, not after what has been wrought, The people know what needs to be done! In to CD players, nationwide, for it has begun.