Their heads bit dust, the bloody wrecks,
With well-honed knife he slit their throats,
Screamed “Allah Akbar, bloody shoats!”
The ayatollah loved the show
But kept his distance...blood could flow
And stain his long white priestly gown,
Though Christian slaves could scrub it down.
The imams hung around old John...
He lived in England till upon
The day he left to find out why
He killed small dogs, made children cry.
He found a home there in Iraq
When he discovered chopping-block
Was not for dogs or goats, indeed,
But infidels, to weep then bleed;
The mullahs taught him Allah's word,
That infidel-lives were absurd...
At least Mohammad got that down
When caravans were not in town
For him to plunder, take some slaves
To rape awhile, send to their graves.
Old John learned fast the art of slice,
The dog-blood never smelled so nice,
His job beat marching in the sand...
The imams rushed to shake his hand.
And as his evening prayer was said
He begged to fill Christians with dread,
His grand philosophy was terse –
Of Jews and Christians nothing worse
Than letting them live on and on
Midst Allah's word that they be gone.
Of all those known as infidel
Or Shiite, who should be in hell,
He was right glad to put them there
And gain rewards for courage, rare,
Although his victims were bound—tight—
Could make no threats, however slight,
To give someone a fighting chance
Just ruined with blood his safe romance.
John filmed be-headings, loved the fame,
When films were shown he loved the shame
When westerners defiled his name...
Yeah...to Iraq was glad he came.
And so it goes.
Jim Clark
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