The Liberals Who Stole Christmas
By Selwyn Duke
Liberals we are and though we eschew its reason,
Capitalize we will on the “Winter Break Season.”
It's good for making money and for spoiling offspring,
But mention the Son and from the gallows you’ll swing.
We abhor yuletide symbols, like red combined with green.
Of the latter color, only piles of cash should be seen.
Uttering the Lord's name causes us great pain.
‘Tis not to be done, ‘cept when taken in vain.
Profanity, immodesty and sass are free expression,
But no Christmas carols when school is in session.
And change “Silent Night” to “Cold in the Night,”
For not a remnant of faith will be allowed in sight.
No student laudation, words or writings of Jesus.
Tolerance is for others; Christianity doesn't please us.
If you ask us about it, we'll say “We're offended!”
So tradition, culture, and faith must be ended.
Kwanzaa is palatable, as are menorahs and witches,
But you Christians have gotten too big for your britches.
Islam doesn't scare us, and lest you wonder why,
‘Cause Christians speak of sin; ‘tis better to die.
Don’t look for equity, we're ruled by feeling.
How far will we go? There is no ceiling.
As long as Christians dare to speak of morality,
We’ll attack them with vigor, the ACLU, and legality.
We’ll trumpet the separation of church and state.
What better way to sanitize our burning hate?
For in the courts of man we reign over your Lord.
With our stooges on the bench, we’re of one accord.
If you’re befuddled, you grasp not our psychology.
What ails us is akin to a frightful pathology.
You make us self-conscious with righteousness,
And we seek justification in relativistic bliss.
Our misery is brought to light by the joy you exude,
So your celebrations we endeavor to preclude.
It’s why we fight ardently in this cultural war:
To destroy your faith, its symbols, and its lore.
‘Tis your existence that accounts for our disposition
And our unholy launching of this secular inquisition.
If you’d just make haste and retire to Paradise,
We assuredly could find it in our hearts to be nice.
Now you know the story of our discontent
And why our minds are so wretchedly bent.
So ‘tis no secret that the rending of tradition
Is our greatest hope, dream, and abiding ambition.
This is why we have made a most demonic decision:
To heap on His servants our most strident derision.
For we shan’t rest till the land’s faith has died,
And we live to see Christ Jesus again crucified.