Once again, readers of Syrian Perspective will have the edge over all others in refinement, good taste and culture.  We have been blessed once more with another masterpiece by the greatest poet of the 21st Century, Sir Run Run Shaw XVIII, Poet Laureate of the English Language in Polynesia and the Far East.  This poem, written under improbable circumstances while Sir Run Run was fighting alongside desperate Crimean citizens demanding unity with Russia, is an evocation of the monumental poem by T.S. Eliot and is not meant to be taken seriously:



August is always the worst of months,

Hiding Zahraan Alloosh under a crop of rocks,

Feeding Palestinians with a snort of dry Vermouth.

Summer is always surprising

As it breathes fire over the Tihama mountains

Frying Syrian falafel with the right amount of garlic.

Al-Maliki surprised me even more than Assad,

Breeding cockroaches more backward than my kin,

Beheading people with dull, short bread knives,

Dancing Tunisian trollops with red, smelly bandanas.

Or Saudis crouching over a crate of fresh bananas.


What is clutching at my groin?  What branch of

Palestinian wretchedness must I now sabotage?

Son of a Bitch! You cannot say or mutter,

Not even cousin Faysal with his trademark stutter.

But if you stand over here where I am seated,

I will show you something rising up from the toilet

When your back is turned to greet it.

I will show you cesspools in a fistful of Saudi history.

o yako domburi

o sushi bento sandiwichi

raamuneh ni sayda

yu nu

Assad gave me headaches for the last 7 years,

They called me the  Headache Man.

But when we returned from Doha,

Your arms full of cash and credit cards

I had to speak though my tongue failed.

I was hung-over repeatedly with an airline sickness bag,

Staring into my own vomit, the stench,

Voulez vous coucher avec moi, ce soir?

Madame Preposterous, famous First Lady

Was suffering from hormonal overdoses

And is known to be the dumbest woman in America

With a hipful of subcutaneous lard.

Here, said she, is your pack of idiot cards,

They’re about this Phoenician president,

(There’s some lapis lazuli in his blue eyes)

Meet Madame Belladonna; She’s from Tunisia.

This lady creates situations.

And here’s my husband with three Jewish pages,

And here’s his cigar box which is empty

But for the metal containers which I

Am forbidden to see.

I do not find anything interesting

And fear sex with men.

At the White House, I see people walking

Around a statue of Mike Tyson.

Thank you, if you see dear Ms. Nuland

Tell her I’ll bring the horrorshow myself.

What else do you expect?

Unreal Presidency

In a total fog during the dog days of Summer

A crowd of reporters trampled up Pennsylvania Ave.

So many liars, I can’t believe there are such liars,

They snorted, sniffed, sniffled and retched,

And each one kept his foot between the other’s feet.

They wriggled up Wyoming Street

To where the Syrian Embassy used to ready

The ballot boxes for their own campaign

Which all was flushed down the drain

By some Zionist named Daniel Rubinstein

In a fit of love for democracy!

Then, I saw one I knew, a Robert Ford!

I stopped him crying:”War Criminal!!

“You were the one who sailed the ships from Benghazi”

“The Syrian corpses you set out to bury”;

“Have your zombies started to sprout?”

“Will they go back this year?”

“Or has the mid-year heat melted down their zeal?”

“You Hypocrite Murderer!  Babbling Idiot!”

“Bandar’s frere.”

(With a nod to T. S. Eliot.  Ezra Pound didn’t have to emend this. ZAF)

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