Every Bright down in Bright-ville liked the winter season…
But the Minch, who lived just North of Bright-ville, demanded “A REASON!”
The Minch hated secular wintertime fun!
Now, please don’t ask why. No one knows, he’s a bum.
It could be that his brain wasn’t screwed in just right.
It could be, perhaps that his pants were too tight.
But I think that the most likely reason for his libel
May have been down to his love for the bible.
But, whatever the reason,
His bible or pants,
He stood there in winter, hating the Brights,
Staring down from his pulpet with a sour, Minchy frown
At all the damn heathens, below in their town.
For he knew every Bright down in Bright-ville beneath
Was busy now cooking their wintertime feast.
“And they’re wrapping their presents!” He snarled with a sneer.
“Tommorow is CHRISTmas! It’s practically here!”
Then he growled, with his minch fingers nervously strumming,
“I must find a way to force CHRISTmas upon ‘em!”
For, tomorrow he knew…
…All the Bright girls and boys
Would wake up BRIGHT and early. They’d rush for their presents!
And then! Oh, lord Mammon! The one RESENTS! RESENTS! RESENTS!
Them the Brights, young and old, would sit down to a lunch.
And they’d lunch And they’d lunch!
And they’d LUNCH! LUNCH! LUNCH! LUNCH!
They would start on Chinese and rare curried-beast
Which was something the Munch couldn’t stomach the least!
They would do something he liked least of all.
Not one Bright in Bright-ville, the big or the small,
Would offer a prayer or visit the church.
They’d waddle to the TV with an unsteady lurch!
They’d sit! And they’d sit!
And they’d SIT! SIT! SIT! SIT!
And the more the Minch thought of their ungodling sitting.
The more the Minch though, “I must force their god-getting!”
“Why for a couple of years I’ve put up with it now!”
“I must club them with Jesus!”
“But – goddamnit – HOW?”
Then he got an idea!
An awful idea!
Got a wonderful, awful idea!
“I know just what to do!” The Minch laughed in his throat.
And he made a quick cross and a Jesus Christ cloak.
And he gloated and chortled, “What a great Minchy trick!”
“With this I can give ‘em the saviour schtick!”
“All I need is an angel…”
The Minch looked around.
But since angels aren’t real, there was none to be found.
Did that stop the old Minch…?”
No! The Minch simply said,
“If I can’t find an angel, I’ll make one instead!”
So he made up some nonsense about people with wings
And if anyone questioned, he beat them with things.
He loaded some boxes
And old shopping bags
On a ramshackle cross
Which to Bright-ville he dragged.
Then the Minch said “Huzzah!”
And he dragged the cross down
Toward the homes where the Brights
Lay asleep in their town.
All their windows were black. Icy chill filled the air.
All the Brights were all dreaming of a future most fair.
Then he came to the first house, there, in the square.
“This is stop number one,” The old Minch-Jesus grumbled
And he smashed down the door “PRAISE THE LORD!” His voice rumbled.
Then he smashed all their toys and their pagan display.
For trees are from Satan, or so he would say.
His cross stuck in the door, for a moment or three,
Then he dragged it inside, in place of the tree.
“Repent sinners! He cried as he ruined their day
With a smile on his face, the godless would pay.
Then he strutted and shouted with a gurn most revolting
When the family came down he was very insulting
“Dawkins and Dennett and Sam Harros too!”
“You’re going to HELL there’s no mercy for you!”
And leaving them confused, their holiday wrecked
He pressed bibles upon them, then outside he schlepped.
He trudged to the next house, a scientist’s place!
He burned all his textbooks and spat in his face.
“Don’t you know?” He said “There’s been revolution!”
“Behe has proven there’s NO EVOLUTION!”
Then he ripped down decorations and shit on their feast.
“S’not me.” He declared. “It’s GOD with the beef!”
And the Minch grabbed a pagan and punched them quite rough
When he heard a small sound, sounding out like a cough.
He turned around quick and he saw a small Bright.
Little Righty-Right Bright, who was always quite right.
The Minch had been cornered by this little Bright daughter
Who’d heard all the noise and had assumed a slaughter.
She stared at the Minch and said, “Who are you?”
“Because Jesus is myth AND not a wanker like you!”
But, you know, that old Minch was a stubborn fanatic
He gathered himself for he never would panic.
“Why, my sweet little girl…” And he gave a quotation
That stemmed from the bible – his only fixation.
That said unto her, in no uncertain terms
That you must honour god or in hell you will burn.
And his lies scared the child, then he smacked her small head
And left her unconcious for Catholics to bed.
And while Righty-Right suffered at the hands of the priests
He had no guilty conscience, not one bit in the least!
Then the last thing he did
Was, he warned of hell fire
Then out he went, the callous old liar
In their house left nothing, but murderous ire.
And the one thing he left
When he ravished the house
Was a scripture fallacious and the spit from his mouth.
Then he did the same thing to the other Bright’s houses.
Leaving drool and invective, from angers he rouses.
It was quarter past nine
All the Brights out of bed
All the Brights not a snoozing
As the Minch-bastard fled.
He’d smashed all their presents and burned all their books
Insulted philosophers, called scientists crooks!
Four-thousand feet up! Up the side of Mount Todd
“Now they’ll have no choice left but turning to god!”
“They’re finding out just how little it means”
“Without god in their lives how mean it must seem!”
“They’ll be wailing and gnashing and turning to the Lord!”
“They’ll be crying and sobbing and out of their gourd!”
“That a triumph” Grinned the Minch,
“To which I must lend an ear.”
So he paused and he quietened, the better to hear.
And he did hear a sound, and so he bit his knuckle.
It wasn’t a sob or a moan… but a chuckle.
This sound wasn’t pained,
His head gave a nod
Could it be that they were not…
Crying out to his god?
He glared down at Bright-ville
And his face turned quite red
The people weren’t moaning
To church they’d not fled!
Every Bright down in Bright-ville, the big and the small,
Were rolling their eyes, were they pained, not at all!
He hadn’t forced Christmas, turned them to the Lord
They were laughing, AT HIM, he was quite appalled!
And the Minch, with his Minch hands, rimed with the frost.
Stood puzzling and worrying, did they not know the cost?
“I brought wrath upon them, I worked to deceive”
“But still good-god’s grace they will not recieve!”
And he stood there three hours, while his heart sank much lower
Could it be they were right, was he stupid or just slower?
“Maybe winter…” He thought “Doesn’t depend on Jesus.”
“Maybe it’s just a time to warm up from the freezes.”
And what happened then…?
Well, in Bright-ville they say
That the Minch’s small brain
Grew 6 IQ points that day!
And the minute his brain had lit up oh-so bright
He didn’t believe, in a FLASH of insight!
He whizzed back to down with the cash from his church
Found those he’d wronged – it wasn’t much of a search
And he bought them new presents, new trees, decorations
And joined in with their secular year-celebrations
Then he raised up his glass and he cried, with good cheer
“There’s no reason for the season, it just IS…