how the bush stole Fitzmas

Every Lib / Down in Lib-ville / Liked Fitzmas a lot...

But the Bush, / Who lived Far Right of Lib-ville, / Did NOT!

The Bush hated Fitzmas! The whole Fitzmas season! / Now, please don't ask why. / No one quite knows the reason. / It could be that his head wasn't screwed on quite right. / It could be, perhaps, that his shoes were too tight. / But I think that the most likely reason of all / May have been that his heart was two sizes too small.

But, / Whatever the reason, / His heart or his shoes, / He stood there on Fitzmas Eve, hating the Libs, / Staring down from his cave with a sour, Bushy frown / At the warm lighted windows below in their town. / For he knew every Lib down in Lib-ville beneath / Was busy now, hanging a mistletoe wreath.

"And they're hanging their stockings!" he snarled with a sneer. / "Tomorrow is Fitzmas! It's practically here!" / Then he growled, with his Bush fingers nervously drumming, / "I MUST find a way to keep Fitzmas from coming!" / For, tomorrow, he knew...

...All the Lib girls and boys / Would wake up bright and early. They'd rush for their toys! / And then! Oh, the noise! Oh, the noise! Noise! Noise! Noise! / That's one thing he hated! The NOISE! NOISE! NOISE! NOISE!

Then the Libs, young and old, would sit down to a feast. / And they'd feast! And they'd feast! / And they'd FEAST! FEAST! FEAST! FEAST! / They would start on French wine, and the Lib movable feast / Which was something the Bush couldn't stand in the least!

And THEN / They'd do something he liked least of all! / Every Lib down in Lib-ville, the tall and the small, / Would stand close together, with Fitzmas bells ringing. / They'd stand hand-in-hand. And the Libs would start singing!

They'd sing! And they'd sing! / AND they'd SING! SING! SING! SING! / And the more the Bush thought of the Lib-Fitzmas-Sing / The more the Bush thought, "I must stop this whole thing! / "Why for fifty-nine years I've put up with it now! /
I MUST stop Fitzmas from coming! / ...But HOW?"

Then he got an idea! / An awful idea! / THE BUSH / GOT A WONDERFUL, AWFUL IDEA!

"I know just what to do!" The Bush Laughed in his throat. / And he made a quick Fitzy Claus hat and a coat. / And he chuckled, and clucked, "What a great Bushy trick! / "With this coat and this hat, I'll look just like Saint Fitz!"

"All I need is a reindeer..." / The Bush looked around. / But since reindeer are scarce, there was none to be found. / Did that stop the old Bush...? / No! The Bush simply said, / "If I can't find a reindeer, I'll make one instead!" / So he called his dog Barney. Then he headed for the door. / But first he dropped Barney right onto the floor.

Tuesday morning . . .
It was quarter past dawn... / All the Libs, still a-bed / All the Libs, still a-snooze / When he packed up his sled, / Packed it up with their presents! The ribbons! The wrappings! / The tags! And the tinsel! The trimmings! The trappings!

Three thousand feet up! Up the side of Mount Crawford, / He rode to the tiptop to dump it! / "Pooh-pooh to the Libs!" he was grinch-ish-ly humming. / "They're finding out now that no Fitzmas is coming! / "They're just waking up! I know just what they'll do! / "Their mouths will hang open a minute or two / "The all the Libs down in Lib-ville will all cry BOO-HOO!"

"That's a noise," grinned the Bush, / "That I simply must hear!" / So he paused. And the Bush put a hand to his ear. / And he did hear a sound rising over the snow. / It started in low. Then it started to grow...

But the sound wasn't sad! / Why, this sound sounded merry! / It couldn't be so! /
But it WAS merry! VERY! / He stared down at Lib-ville! / The Bush popped his eyes! / Then he shook! / What he saw was a shocking surprise!

Every Lib down in Lib-ville, the tall and the small, / Was singing! Without any presents at all! / He HADN'T stopped Fitzmas from coming! / IT CAME! /
Somehow or other, it came just the same!

And the Bush, with his Bush-feet ice-cold in the snow, / Stood puzzling and puzzling: "How could it be so? / It came without ribbons! It came without tags! /
"It came without packages, boxes or bags!" / And he puzzled three hours, `till his puzzler was sore. / Then the Bush thought of something he hadn't before! / "Maybe Fitzmas," he thought, "doesn't come from a court. / "Maybe Fitzmas...perhaps...means a little bit more!"

And what happened then...?

Well . . . in the version of the story written by the legendary Dr. Seuss and animated by the great Chuck Jones, the Grinch’s heart grows three sizes, he returns the presents, and carves the roast beast himself. That, of course, won’t happen. Our grinch will unleash the Smirk of Mass Destruction, claim vindication and demand that the Vatican beatify Karl Rove.

But we must not let it stop us from dancing and singing from the rooftops what we still know. The fact that they got away with it this time only means that we must sing it louder and longer. Fitzmas—and the ultimate justice that it will someday bring to this band of thieves and war-criminals—means much more than one indictment of one man. It always did.

spacedark (apologies to Seuss)