PART ONE – ORIENTALS PEARLS AT RANDOM STRUNG
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.