The Ballad of Islamist Rage Boy
A satire, in verse
They made a movie I don't like—at least, I'm pretty sure;
I haven't really seen it yet; the flick is frightfully obscure.
It's out there somewhere, though – a fact that drives me nuts.
And that is why my friends and I all hate your stinking guts.
We'd like to kill you slowly – soon, with lots of pain and blood –
For letting anyone produce such narrow-minded crud.
You've hurt our feelings – mocked our Prophet – made us blow a gasket.
We won't find any peace until your head is in a basket.
A stoning, for such blasphemy, might also be required
By those of us who are by grace and tolerance inspired.
With sticks and stones we'll break your bones while you complain and snivel
For having the audacity to imply that we're uncivil.
Don't feel too bad – it's not just you; we also plan to slaughter
Any mother or her son who tries to teach a daughter
Math or science, prose or verse, or other learned arts.
Stultifying minds, you see, is how we capture hearts.
We shot one girl the other day—Malala is her name.
Despite the many protests, we feel not a whit of shame.
Defying us, she tried to learn, and now she's in our debt —
For she's been taught a lesson that she will not soon forget.
We're also torching schools when we catch them teaching girls –
There's nothing like the morning smell of smoking flesh and curls.
Our methods may be stern, but with God's blessing we'll persist
'Til every girls' school puts a sign up, reading: "Class Dismissed."
We're waging war as well on what we deem immodest dress.
The passions it can stir we all must instantly repress,
For otherwise, one cannot tell where such things could be leading;
Without us men, the women might display improper breeding.
An inter-gender glance that lingers could ignite intense emotions
That could distract a man and woman from their Heavenly devotions
Such as love, and joy, and tenderness – and others we disparage
As having no befitting role within a proper marriage.
So it's our duty to ensure the ladies all stay chaste –
And those who don't, for their own good, must quickly be de-faced
By veiling, slashing, stoning, or a simple vial of acid.
That's the ticket that we use to keep our members flaccid.
We've built some scaffolds, too, for men who lie with men.
They did that once in Sodom, but won't do it here again.
We'll stretch their necks with solid rope we've twisted into nooses —
That will stop those fellows cold, and dry up all their juices.
For thieves we keep a vorpal blade, for cleaving hand from arm;
Some find this quite barbaric; we think it has its charm.
Five-finger discounts, people find, aren't nearly as much fun
When, counting up your digits, you discover you have none.
Our attitude on heretics is: never, ever judge —
We don't care how they die and we will not hold a grudge,
So long as they die slowly—and make it hurt like hell.
If everyone can hear them scream, then we think that they've died well.
And then, of course, there is The Jew—that son of ape and pig
Whose double-dealing forces neighbors to renege
On promises pre-emptively, before The Jew can do it.
The lack of peace is all his fault—no matter how you view it.
Just look around the modern world, which knew no strife or stress
Until The Jew appeared to impede its happiness.
Now brother fights with brother, and Sunni fights with Shi'a.
I'm telling you, those Euro-fascists had the right idea.
Dojn't get me wrong!—I don't concede the Holocaust was real.
It's just a Jewish fantasy cooked up so Jews could steal
The land where milk and honey once through other fingers flowed.
The very thought makes me so mad I think I might explode.
What really gets my goat, of course, is how you all depict us:
Wild-eyed and waving fists, mouths twisted into a rictus.
How such a funny notion ever got into your head. . . .
Was it something one of us did, or something we said?