By Sir Run Run Shaw XVIII, Poet Laureate of the Orient and Polynesia

In whose wadi do ye sport?

And by what nostril do ye snort?

The Moving Hand hath else to start

But a  list of guns bought a la carte.

Ye mingle with the hoi kakoi

In Chechen-Land you find the boys;

All tarted up with earrings gold

To link to anklets as night unfolds.

A race of ape so dull, yet, lucky

Hath found corruption in one so plucky;

To foment rebellion in ways so ducky

But, when it’s o’er, its mucky, mucky.

In-bred scoundrels and scalawags

Do multiply like plastic bags.

We listen to them in Incirlik

Commanding Chechens to board at Styx.

We even hear them concocting fables

Less Aesop-like than Betty Grable,

Their greatest effort to turn the tide

Before their rats go down the Slide

To Satan’s table where they’ll munch

On fatty livers and hearts for brunch.

The King of Saudi doth seem so rowdy

With speech unlettered and Saudi dowdy.

Oh,  Prince of Roaches and Nincompoops!

How can ye find so many dupes?

Yet, if ye see them in satin clad

Do not dither, declare Sex Jihad!

Tunisian tarts and Qatar’s strumpets

Don’t serve up just tea and crumpets.

They ululate – eschewing trumpets!

If given aught, they might just dump it.

For after all is said and done

It’s Allah’s wish that it’s all for fun.

The poor Jihadist must seek relief

From all beheadings and the grief

By giving rest to femmes repressed

Who otherwise could scarce undress

For any party of males depressed

Unless they bear the tribal crest.

Jezebels! Harlots! Hussies and Whores!

Unite in Wahhabism’s new Holy War

To put  Damascus to the flames

And all for some meretricious dames.

The Scourge of Araby, this Bin Sultan,

He eats bananas with such elan,

You’d think his mother was baboon

Or something spawned inside cocoon.


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