Deep in the streets of Harare

There lived an odd Muslim called Charlie

He roamed all around

Slept on the dry ground

He relished the nights that were starry

So once Ramadan came finally

The people, they flocked in their armies

Pervading the mosques

Forsaking kiosks

From Indonesia to Mali

And on a wide street in Harare

A mosque was ready for Taraaweeh

The people came in

Through all thick and thin

Including a bloke called Ansari

Ansari was praying Taraweeh

But on his mind was a Ferrari

His cousin had squeaked

He’d get him one cheap

On Eid it would be a finale!

So Ansari had prayed his taraweeh

All twenty rakat without any parley

He felt such a pride

And pious inside

Despite all his thoughts on Ferraris

But just as he left the taraaweeh

He happened to look at odd Charlie

Who sat there not shy

With halva and chai

As if he was having a party

Ansari looked down at odd Charlie

Stern like the winds of Rub’ al Khali

He thought: “this I think

Instead of his drink

He should have observed the taraaweeh.”

Tutting and grave walked Ansari

Immediately looked up, odd Charlie

His insight aroused

He heard thoughts aloud

Emboldened he called on Ansari:

“Dear sir, you have read your taraaweeh

And now you think you’re Qardawi

But this I decry

My Halva and chai

Surpasses your prayer for Ferrari!”