How the Grinch Could Have Won

The Whos Down in Whoville were on a new tack.
They liked Christmas a lot, but how to get back
At those silly grum-fowlers and frumious besneachers
Who cut down the trees and turned them to sneakers?

They had an idea, that clever old bunch,
That had a good punch, a quite good old punch.
They'd take all the poets, the tall and the small,
The big and the little, one and all,
And turn them to labors mundane and belittling
Like whistling old tunes and aimlessly whittling.

"Then we'll see, oh yes, then we'll see!"
Said the Who who wasn't decorating a tree,
"How they like it when their turn comes round:
To no longer fly but be trapped on the ground.
They can pick up the trash by their highway and village
The cold nights of which they symbolically pillage."

Oh what great fun they had, those Whos all down there,
Grabbing the poets and pulling their hair,
And pointing out the cigarette butts on the ground,
When turned to the sunset just beating them down.

"Life is weak! Life is mundane!
Do not, do not, do not give us pain!
Stop your grum-fowling and frumious be-sneaching,
It's nothing for us, and nought to be teaching."

The poets just nodded, and went back to work,
When on down the chimney there came with a jerk
That jerk most wonderful, the jerkest of all:
The jerkiest of the tall and small!

The Grinch had come, he really had came!
The Who people smiled and shouted his name
And the Grinch raised his hands and then raised his voice,

"Friends, I come to you today with a choice.
Do away with these foul-looking poetic creatures,
These dreadful lampooners and naughty besmeechers.
We want no charming songs of sunsets and searchers
Or wicked old sagas of windbags and lurchers.

No one should search, no one should find
And all of you must share one mind
I know what you're thinking and I think it too.
I really do, really I do.

And I think what your thinking is just so great
That I will abolish all else on the plate
And throw these great 'poets' out into ditches,
To rot and to boil, and not to scratch itches.

And then the sunrise will curdle their innards
And then the weeds will grow up through their gizzards,
And then the world will suck them dry,
As it's sucked us: why even try?"

To this the Whos let out a hooray;
The poets were tied and left dry that day.
Reality ruled from that point forth,
The Grinch smiled and leered up on high from his perch
And Christmas was cancelled, and Hanukkah too.

No memory needed, what does it do?
Just clutters up now, which is all that has worth,
History, of course, does not need a berth.

And then all the Whos gathered and all the Whos roared
A song which for miles around was heard.

"8 hour work days, 8 hour work days,
Weekends off, hooray hooray!
Paid vacation, paid vacation,
Come and praise the great mundane."