SECOND POST – May 15, 2012 – A POEM FOR THE ARAB SPRING BY POET LAUREATE SIR RUN RUN SHAW IIXX.
It all was Carthage, amidst the swash of sea and sway of palm;
Twas a smallish man who doused his frame with a liquefied napalm;
Roasted to crisp, this Musulman, whom the pious darn’t embalm;
Became the cris de guerre, the primal force, the storm before the calm.
And thanks to him, Libyan fate is sealed, and tight! Inside a chamberpot;
And ancient Egypt, plumped on Nile, God of Harvest, Prince of Snot,
Explodes each day the Army’s ogres decree the quotidian aliquot;
And Bahrein! Dilmun! Could it become the hottest Arabian entrecote?
Brought to ruin with French largess and British malicious swishes!
And Yankee connivance, without a doubt, and Zionist-arsenicked knishes;
Supported by frothing Arab sots who deem “Fair Boys”….delicious;
Arab Spring is but a thing stuffed up your rump. And then! So adventitious.
Ix nay! I say. Keep your revolution away, from beauteous Syrian dales;
Daughter of Baal! Creator of Earth! We are eaters of stuffed entrails!
Syrians will not bend to join an Arab race of nitre-crusted snails!
Instead we’ll fight, and our bums afloat! with billowing, robust sails.
Sir Run Run Shaw, from the Upanishads of Melancholy