The Ballad of the Caveman Fundie
A fundie born of parents young,
soon baptised in a cave,
as other fundies praised and sung
of hopes beyond the grave.
The leader of his cavish clan
with stern and chiding air
spoke reams on death and god’s great plan,
on evils to beware.
The risks of thought and doubt made plain,
these warnings rudely prod:
a burning hell of endless pain
awaits the foes of god.
Their future is a life of bliss,
forever and a day!
’Twas paid for by a Judas kiss
and he to whom they pray.
“May part of us rise up to god
upon the day we die!
Our bodies buried in the sod
will follow by and by!”
But reason is god’s stoutest foe,
the fundies all agree,
while grunting in their caves of woe
how privileged they be.
And so they taught the young man tales
as though the tales were real,
of virtue vested in three nails
that mankind’s ills would heal.
Before the youngster had a chance
to learn of reason pure,
his teachers held him in a trance,
a questing mind to cure.
And crippled thus, with no defence,
his fettered mind gave in:
to query fables made no sense,
a frightful, mortal sin!
But every time the fables clash
with sober facts stripped bare,
the fundie caveman comes out brash
to fight the ones who dare.
With grunts and howls and swinging sticks,
they raze a broken track
through men of straw and tired tricks,
at truth they vainly hack.
And when the day’s brave fight is done,
they draw back to their hide,
and wait that Luna ousts the sun,
to howl with baleful pride.
The joke’s on them, themselves they bind,
their efforts cannot quell
the sharpness of a thinking mind
they would condemn to hell.
(With apologies to STC, and thanks to all the fearless heretics over at Prometheus Unbound.)