THE LOVE SONG OF R. TAYYIP ERDOGHAN, BY SIR RUN RUN SHAW (WITH APOLOGIES TO T.S. ELIOT)

Let us go then, you and I, to the Syrian border

Where cannibals skulk beneath a sullen sky,

Like a mass of vermin vitalized by promise of Paradise

Let us go, through a multitude of psychopaths

Whose most urgent need is a hot, soapy bath.

There are border crossings which are a tedious argument

Of my most malicious intent, which

Leads me to an overwhelming conviction.

Oh, don’t ask why is it so,

Let me go to buy some petro.

 

On the Turkish border, the terrorists come and go

Hauling Syrian crude to a Turkish Amoco.

 

The yellow gas that rubs its way into a Syrian lung,

The yellow mist that erodes the sacs inside the Syrian lung,

Snuck its way into nostrils as their lungs were heaving

Acting like an ether which pulled their necks like chains

Accepted by the lying press as caused by Assad’s force

It slipped by everyone’s attention and took a ghastly course

But, since it was a hot September night

The Western Press became the ass upon the liar’s horse.

 

And is it worth it all?

Is it worthwhile to kill Assad’s Alawites,

His Christians, Druze and Sunni heretics?

After the bombings, beheadings and immolations,

The suicide attacks and homosexual defenestrations?

This, and I wish for even more.

I just don’t know how to put it;

It’s as if a puff of hashish threw my imaginings on the oda’s floor

Is it really worth the while

If some stupid dame threw a dagger at my neck

And leaping out the window should say

“That’s not where it was supposed to land,

That’s not it at all.”

 

I grow bold….I grow bold….

I shall wear my turban wrapped in gold.

 

I have seen the cannibals driving Toyotas on the sands

Parting the blondish particles all blown back

When the napalm wafts over villages leaving a limey track.

I have left my stink in the tunnels ‘neath Istanbul

With Syrian catamites wrapped in silk both red and brown

Till the U.N. Criminal Court awakens me, and I drown.

 

(December 18, 2015, Florence, Italy, by Sir Run Run Shaw, XVIII, Poet Laureate of the Far East and Polynesia,  with deep apologies to T.S. Eliot’s “Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”)

 

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