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.