Oh, little Bank Americard
You bring me Christmas Cheer
Without your clout
I have no doubt
No gifts I’d give this year.
Your credit line allows me
To run up bills quite large
And when I’m through
Exhausting you
I’ll use my Master Charge.
(Same tune, sung in late February)
Oh, little Bank Americard
You bring me discontent
I calculate
Your int’rest rate
Is over twelve percent.
Each month, your cry for payments
My letter-box bombards;
I’m one more sap
Caught in your trap
Next year I’ll just send cards.
