"Hope everybody's ringing on their own bell this fine morning
Hope everyone's connected to that long-distance phone
Old man, he's a mountain
Old man, he's an island
Old man, he's a-waking, says
'I'm going to call, call all my children home'

Hope everybody's dancing to their own drum this fine morning
The beat of distant Africa or a Polish factory town
Old man, he's calling for his supper
Calling for his whiskey
Calling for his sons and daughters, yeah
Calling all his children round

Sharp ears are tuned in to the drones and chanters warming
Mist blowing round some headland, somewhere in your memory
Everyone is from somewhere, even if you've never been there
So take a minute to remember the part of you that might be the old man calling me

How many wars you're fighting out there, this winter's morning?
And maybe there's always time for another Christmas song
Old man he's asleep now
Got appointments to keep now
Dreaming of his sons and daughters, and proving,
proving that the blood is strong"

-Jethro Tull, "Another Christmas Song"