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Once there was a poet
Who hailed from Tipperary
One day he said: “I know what I’ll do
I’ll be the new Busiri!
I am going to be the one and only
I am going to be a star
Muslims from all around will cheer
This is the new burda!
How can you love Muhammad so much?
How can you show such devotion?
What do you see in this Arabian?
Why does he stir your emotions?
All we have heard is his harem of wives
Included the little girl Aisha
We hear of his call for Islamic jihad
And his Quran so hard to decipher.
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There once were two men: Abdul Razzaq and Abdul Ghani.
Abdul Razzaq was a faithful man, who was very resourceful, with a talent for acquiring wealth. By the age of forty, he had paid off the mortgages of three properties, rented them out and his portfolio continued to grow promisingly.
.
I was roaming outside on the vast fields under the tearful sky searching for my beloved one.
I lost her the previous night, while I slept, while I drifted through the valleys of discontentment in my dreams. When I awoke, she was gone… And realising my folly, I rushed out of my house searching desperately for her. Searching up trees, walking into caves, scaling the solitary hills of woe. I had not found her and I was becoming a nervous wreck of a soul. Before I left, I rang my teacher and asked him what I should do.
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Seven nufus were on the loose
One day from Ramadan
They met in Sousse for some couscous
Before the maghrib azaan.
“What is she looking at?”
Lucy’s friends glanced at her and then at the figure on the other side of the street, who stood watching them, while they sat around the chic table outside a prestigious city wine bar.
“She’s been staring at us, or rather at me, for a long time,” remarked Lucy, flicking back her gorgeous, auburn hair, taking a long drag of her sleek cigarette nonchalantly like Greta Garbo.
“I don’t think she’s looking at you my dear,” remarked Lucy’s confidante, Roxanne, “she’s probably senile.”
“A bit creepy though,” chimed in their friend Saba. “That’s not right the way she’s just looking at us.”
“Don’t stare back!” insisted Lucy. “She might come up to us!”
Roxanne interrupted: “Just ignore her. Pretend she’s not even there.”
Oh Allah send Your prayers and peace upon him
And upon his companions and kin
By the number of pearls of sweat on al buraq
Which cascaded as the sage ascended him
By the number of prayers the rider invoked
And the flutters of wings of his companions
By the number of sand stones at Al Aqsa
Which intoned his praise as he dismounted
By the number of Prophets that humbly stood
As the chosen one led with equilibrium
And the number of contours in the rock
And the streams of wind as the travellers took off
By the number of times the wise one was hailed
By each Prophet as the levels he scaled
And the number of shimmering branches on Al Muntaha
Ad infinitum they communed Lover and Beloved
From the day You made this life
To the end when we arise
Every day a thousand times!
Rolling, rolling, rolling
Keep them barrels rolling
Keep countries invading
RAW OIL!
“I want to see the prophet!”
Proclaimed a little girl,
“I want to look upon his face,
The mercy of the worlds.”
“You’ve told me all the stories,”
She told her dear parents,
“But still I can not see his face
I’m feeling disenchanted!”
“Where did you get that word from?”
Replied the dad, impressed,
“I do not even use that word
Myself I must confess!”
A New Yorker called Donald Trump
With Latinos and Muslims, he had the hump!
For him all the Latinos were a bunch of druggies
And Muslims were a national security worry.
He’d flick his quiff and pick and sniff
While screaming firebrand speeches
The Muslims angered him so much
He’d go all pink like peaches!