I would believe only in a god who could dance. Nietzsche
Labour is blossoming or dancing where The body is not bruised to pleasure soul, Nor beauty born out of its own despair, Nor blear-eyed wisdom out of midnight oil. O chestnut tree, great rooted blossomer, Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole? O body swayed to music, O brightening glance, How can we know the dancer from the dance? W.B.Yeats, "Among School Children"
The world won't end in darkness, it'll end in family fun, with Coca-cola clouds behind a Big Mac sun. The Beautiful South, "One God"
I don't really miss God, but I sure miss Santa Claus. Hole, "Gutless"