An elegy on the death of a jihadi dog

With due apologies to Oliver Goldsmith

Good people all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wondrous short,
It cannot hold you long.

In Sopore in Kashmir there was a man,
Of whom the Hurriyat might say
That a necessary but violent race he ran,
In Pakistan’s pay.

A deadly and ready gun he had,
To kill friends and foes;
The Kashmiris every day he freed,
When they exploded at his blows.

And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp and hound,
And curs of low degree.

The dog and the jihadi were never friends;
But when the jihad began,
The jihadi, to gain his private ends,
Tied a grenade according to plan.

Round and round the neighbouring street
The mujahidog ran,
As it happens, he missed his hit,
And killed not a man.

The blast it seemed both sore and loud
To every Kashmiri eye;
While they silently swore the jihadi was mad,
They knew the dog would die.

Sure enough not a wonder came to light,
That showed the people they were right:
The jihadis escaped without a bite,
The dog, poor dog, it died.

4 thoughts on “An elegy on the death of a jihadi dog”

  1. I am torn between admiring the style of writing and disgust at the scum of the earth.

    No creature of God is too small to help their sickening cause it would seem.

  2. In times long past I remember proposing in jest that the use of nuclear weapons might be deterred if delivery mechanisms were limited to oxcarts rather than missiles. That joke now sounds sick in these days of suicide bombers of every age, gender, and species.

    Very nice blog, BTW. I’ll have to stop by more regularly.

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