Thursday, 19 May 2016

A Letter Home From The Islamic State

I miss Greggs' pasties:
Here in the Caliphate
We only eat off a plate,
(It's always a stalled ox with hate
Therein).  We nasties
Are nought if not sticklers for etiquette
And Sharia -
Which is just another word
For manners really, rules.
Like wiping your mouth with a serviette,
Only if you forget,
You get your head cut off,
Or you're thrown in a vat of nitric acid.


It's cool, yet I still fancy a pasty,
Greasy, flabby, warm and flaccid
Just to hold in my right hand.


I got my left one chopped off
Because I didn't understand
That I wasn't meant to use the boss's tools,
And I took his spanners as I hadn't heard
Him stipulate
That using his stuff was haram.


He brought his sword down slam,
And shouted God is Great,
And I thought, yeah, but your'e nasty.
And now the end of my arm,
Looks like a boiled ham,
Which is not a good look, in Islam.


Sometimes when I'm hungry,
I wish he'd chopped off my head,
Instead, because my stomach quite often thinks my throats cut
Anyway.  And there's this constant rumbling in my gut.


Here we live off the fat of the land.
Life's not hard.
It's not that the food here isn't tasty,
It's just they just don't do flaky pastry.
Food in the Caliphate is great, 
Like God, but it isn't like food from Greggs
Which is greater,
Like those ones with meat and potater,
I could right fancy one o' them,
Or some chips and battered cod,
But that's not Halal, either pal,
If it's done like I like: in lard.
So I'd better watch it, or I'll lose my other hand
And both legs.






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