December brings the King of Kings. They tell us that a child is born. But snowy nights and Christmas lights just only make me cold and warm. Salvation bands reach out their hands to ask you for a dime or two. To praise the Lord and Henry Ford, Detroit, December. The friends I meet along the street, I know them from the factory. But thirty years of building gears makes Christmas seem untrue to me. Eight hours a day, just to draw my pay, and overtime to see me through. And peace on earth, for what it's worth, Detroit, December. The things I had, the things I made, are lost like pebbles on the beach. And anything I want the most is always furthest out of reach. To trade these blues for dancing shoes, and trade the old year for the new. But time, it seems, will steal you dreams, Detroit, December, and you. But time, it seems, will steal you dreams, Detroit, December, and you.