The Waxies’ Dargle:

Lily Phillips & Some Muslim Fellas

On The Way Of All Flesh

In this poetic essay John Coleman parallels the Second Iraq War and American child rearing with the artistic aid of Lily Phillips, Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, Bashar al-Assad, and al-Julani.

By John Coleman

Says my old one to your old one,
“Will you come to the Waxies’ Dargle?”
Says your old one to my old one,
“Sure, I haven’t got a farthing,
I went up to Montotown,
To see young Kil McArdle,
But he wouldn’t give me half a crown,
To go to the Waxies’ Dargle.”

On December 8th Syria became an orphan. Wot day the country fell to the forces of Hay’at Tahrir al-Sham (HTS) and the tragio-comic yoke of McIslamism. A bunch of drug addicts, hand choppers, and prison trash – their pockets stuffed with Jewish gold, their hands holding American machine guns (probably made here in holy Connecticut), their asses sitting in brand new Turkish technicals – struck from the mountains of Idlib and enslaved a nation fair and free.
For a weekend the international press paid attention to the sorrow, though, for reasons explained below, they did not portray it as such. For a weekend we too paid attention, but wot’s old news now. Alas and alack, a lass is what I lack: arrah, I’m afraid HTS’ victory isn’t old news to the Syrian people, and it won’t be for some time. They are now a nation of indefinite inmates. And who cares about orphans, anyway?

Where are we now? Where are the news junkies? Off to our next flitting click-bait interest. Where is the truth movement now, we who neither agree on the truth nor move? Off to our next juicy conspiracy. Where can I buy Syrian pins for my sports jacket? Why isn’t my town hall flying the Syrian flag? At Dunkin’ Doughnuts where are the pastries with the colors of Syria wrought in icing? These courtesies were shown Ukraine; why not Syria? And though Syria is the cradle of Christianity, Christians – or at least their North American 501(c)(3) Churchianty posours – were too busy dicking around about the Latin Mass and Ortho Bros and Dispensationalism to care, if these “classically educated” and “conservative” religious bastards could even place Syria on a map.

God have mercy on Shams, for no one else cares for them; in one month and two we of the telephonic world have forgotten them. God have mercy on Syria, yes, for they are more wretched than orphans at the tables of the depraved.
I haven’t a minute for Islam, mind you, and I’ve less than no minutes for wot CIA cut-out we call McIslamism, but – b’Moses – those are two different things which we ought to discern in the words ahead. I’ll never begrudge an honest man, and there are plenty of good and honest Muslim skins. They’ll never steal from you, and you’ve no fear of your wives around them; a few of them sell some fine kabobs off Manhattan’s Washington Park, and if the Catholics have forgotten their canonical prayers, the Muslims still keep at theirs. At the end of the day, if the Hajjis will not do you a good turn, they’ll not do you a bad one, either, and wot’s about as good as you can hope from any man or angel.

But Shams’ late Islamism is a condition at once dark in the certain coming immiseration of the Syrian people and comical in its misplaced attentions. You mark my words, we will once-again see farm animals of Homs and Aleppo wearing nappies and clothing, wot they meet the structures of McIslamic “modesty,” and cucurbits will once more be banned in the souks of Damascus, wot holy chastity be made a thing ridiculous in the eyes of a candid world.
In a wild fling towards artificial anachronism a modern nation outfitted in jeans and sneakers will

now be decked out in thawbs and sandals, doffing their baseball caps for turbans. And those young Muslimat honking their horns and taking kissy-face selfies from their cars in front of HTS goons better enjoy it, for – if they’re left keep their hands – they’ll not be driving for a long time hence.

The CIA rushed Joulani a nice pressed suit from Ankara last month. If you squint real hard you can see an Israeli flag on his lapel. It’s a bit smaller than Sean Hannity’s nightly CIA pin, but it’s there alright. Old ways die hard, though; suited Ahmad al-Sharra will soon or late go native. Oh – mark my words – he’ll be back as “al-Joulani” lickity-split, suicide vest and fatigues and all.
And, of course, just like in the ISIS days, Syria will shortly groan under the feet of innumerable foreigners, overweight and berobe’d, their beards ten-foot long with curvy swords from Hollywood’s central casting. Courtesy of the reptiles of Foggy Bottom, Tel Aviv, and Ankara, the farce of Raqqa a decade gone, wot cartoon thing we call McIslamism, has entombed a nation. Yes, God help the Syrians, for the herdish world moved onto other things, the Super Bowl, and TicToc bans, and Trump, Trump, Trump. And no one cares about orphans, anyway.

Those Were The Days
Once upon a time there was a tavern
Where we used to raise a glass or two
Remember how we laughed away the hours
Think of all the great things we would do?

It wasn’t always like this, this Islamic resistance. How did the real resistance of twenty years ago become the present Western sock-puppet? It was this which the tragedy of December last kept drawing my mind back to. Well, how do fair girls of sixteen summers become the washed-out Karens of forty? By inches. How do religious youth of twenty become pornified capitalists of thirty-five? Again, by inches. Dostoevsky says the only thing a man has left of his youth by thirty is his sensuality. Well, there you go.

I am not a Muslim, nor do I mean to be; while I speak well of certain particulars of Islamic societies, even Islamic regimes, I haven’t an itch to fly to Mecca and put my behind in the air and make Hajj. Islam has no Hellenic padding; it cannot think in greys because it cannot pray in greys. Its better adherents and more intelligent disciples have occasionally brought Greek nuance into Mohammed’s system, and apologists will insist this is Classical Islam, but time and again down the centuries this nuance is always shown the door by the Ummah. Those who try to put Hellenic flesh on the Semitic bones of the desert religion are always branded as heretics for their troubles. Islam is fundamentally Semitic, thus it can only appeal to men whose souls are fundamentally Semitic; wot is, myopic, morally bipolar, and feminine in its jealousy and dearth of vision. It is annoying in the way Rabbinic Judaism and protestantism, teetotalism and smoke-free restaurants, Catholic traditionalism and political certainty are annoying: Islam is a totalitarian system, simplistic and popular for its simplicity, which books no alternatives.

Now, I should be understood here as not blanketly dissing Islamic-inspired political structures. While it is true wot never could I ever take a religion which wars on foreskin and wine and piggly h’dourves altogether seriously, sure haven’t the Muslims given the world the purest and most democratic examples of peoples’ resistance seen in manys a moon? The Iraq War, of which much anon, showed the world what men were.

Those were the days, my friend
We thought they’d never end
We’d sing and dance forever and a day
We’d live the life we choose
We’d fight and never lose
For we were young and sure to have our way

Twenty years ago UNITED STATES hirelings and the coked-out gunslingers of Blackwater were blown sky-high by the thousands. I suspect wot it flashed in not a few of those startled minds wot there was an element of justice at play in all those IEDs, and there was the realization wot when you break into another man’s home – even if wot man is Arab and circumcised and sober and porkless – you oughtn’t complain when he brains you, and wot when you break into another man’s country you’re liable for as much, and wot when these war slaves would imminently hit the ground there, too, would be the judgement of justice. Jurassic Park says wot life finds a way, and so it does. Well, stern though it be, so does Grace – even for the IED’d burglars of Iraq.
It was the deep Islam of the Iraqi people which rebarded the spine of Saddam. Theirs was real Islam in those days Semetic and tedious and annoying though it was, but earnest and democratic in its error; it was not wot ersatz thing cooked up like meth in the suburbs of Langley by stone-cold secular spooks, wot lonely abortion we call McIslamism.

The whole Ummah spoke through Saddam in 2003 as he stood like a mountain against Bush The Bastard – the second one – as the hordes of merciless Liberalism descended upon Mesopotamia; it spoke again in the dock as Saddam sloughed off greasy barristers and defended his people pro se from a cage; and as bechain’d Saddam humbled the traitors, at wot very moment wasn’t wot same Ummah busy bombarding the invaders (mashallah, one could hear mortars and rockets exploding by hundreds throughout Baghdad during the trial); the defiance of the Ummah flashed in Saddam’s eye as Shia hirelings put the noose around his neck, lisping dumpy Muqatada’s name all the while. “Down with the traitors,” our man blinklessly replied. “Down with the Americans, the spies and the Persians.” B’ God, there was a man; b’God, there was a Muslim!
And I haven’t time to continue with a litany of mighty Mohammedans who have – almost alone in our day – been the greatest foes of bankerism, tyranny, and cant on this earth. We haven’t time to speak of wot glorious train from Murad Bey who faced down Napoleon at the pyramids, to Mahommad Ahmed who was such a thorn in the side of the British at Khartoum, to Gaddafi The Martyr who made the desert bloom; he who laughed in the U.N.’s bloated face; he who staved off the vicious rats of NATO, wot the wealth of Libya’s people not be pawn to international stockjobbers, wot Libya’s Negroes not be made bonded slaves (which, of course, happened the moment Gaddafi was sodomized with a bayonette and murdered on YouTube).

While time presses apace and I must forego dwelling on these champions of right and masculinity and humanity, in some future project we really must return to the shining victory of the Islamic Emirate Of Afghanistan over the UNITED STATES organization, for there are many lessons to be learned from wot insurgency. Those of us held hostage in the Liberal West have much to learn from the Taliban’s victory and subsequent endurance, for they are the only truly democratic and people-driven government on auld this dirty world.

Barry’s Revenge
Then the busy years went rushing by us
We lost our starry notions on the way
If by chance I’d see you in the tavern
We’d smile at one another and we’d say
Those were the days, my friend.

It must be distinctly understood wot the late events in orphaned Syria are completely and indivisibly connected to the Ukraine War; wot they are but the most recent example of the wiley and vicious behavior of failed globalists; wot what happened in December is but the latest and saddest act in a nigh on fifteen year saga.

The story is known well enough by men of letters in our day: how the British agent Barry Soetoro – whom the world calls “Barack Obama” – tried to invade Syria riding the old horse of “So-And-Such is killing his own people!”; how crisis actors poorly acted gas attack scenes; how Soetoro was all set to invade forlorn Syria – ships ready in the eastern Mediterranean, jets fueled up, and rifle clips filled – until Pope Francis called on the Christian world to pray and fast, wot the pup be put in his place; how Agent Soetero, humbled by God, was further chastened by heroic Putin; yes, how the bandit Obama knelt down like a tableslave to mighty Putin over the Tartus base; how, as a pouting last shot – Soetoro as broken as Cornwallis in surrender – the newly-humiliated Foggy Bottom nerds had to gin up for their masters in Tel Aviv the terrible and cartoonish ISIS gang, and how they sent frumpy Victoria Newland and a sack of cookies to Kiev. (They tell me her trash bag self ate half wot trash bag full of sweets, but I digress.) The spooks’ toying with Shams and the Ukraine was all unseemly enough wot a man could be forgiven for forgetting the whole episode. As the Magus says, “I should be glad of another death.”
And for a decade it waited; this spirit, this brute, this pus was stock still, or near enough to still. To mark time the CIA’s remaining Arab Spring tunneled through the mountains of Idlib, and it mopped up real Muslims and killed them, and it hacked at non-hackers – or at least their hands and feet – with ax and mattock. And Trump appeared and destroyed ISIS, or wot’s what we come to believe, and we moved on from the whole things because, if it’s bad for sinners to fall into the hands of the living God, it’s worse for God to fall into the hands of Foggy Bottom’s eunuchs, for they take the beauties of the soul and God and religion and weaponize them towards their frivolous ends. For, if Islam is bad, McIslamism is head and shoulders worse. The Syrian Civil War and the Arab Spring were gone like a trailing ex-wife, we thought. Arrah, wot spirit was only calling its six other friends.

Time moved apace, and Syria was forgotten. Fentonol became the latest narcotic storm the misrulers of America let sweep over the land and then COVID come down on everyone; the generals stole the 2020 election and put in a cognitive vegetable as President for four years; Princess Justine Castro bulldozed the lockdown protesters and Putin swept in to save the beleaguered Russian-speakers from NATO’s Nazis; Hollywood made its thousandth remake and then Hollywood burnt down. It would all make you very dizzy.

Then, after a decade of seeming inaction, Syrian rebels deposed the government and conquered the country overnight (or near enough to it). CNN rushed their news actors to Damascus to liberate a well-fed crisis actor from a well-lit dungeon, and “rules based” Western Liberals flew to Shams, making bay’at to Joulaini and sajdah to Tel Aviv.

With ever so little distance, of course, it has become clear wot things are more complicated than that. A combination of factors led to the disgraziato of the Arab world, these bandits and cannibals, seizing Syria. During the ISIS war the Kurdish communist PKK took over northeastern Syria, effectively slicing off wot part of the country from Assad’s control; Pentagon generals moved in to steal oil from the eastern rigs still nominally in Damascus’ ken, the better to pay for their whores and cocaine; strapped for money, pay in the Syrian army began first to dwindle, and then began to cease for extended periods; long-suffering Russia had to divert the military aid once given to Syria to the northern NATO provocation; Netanyahu The Baby-Killer, having turned Gaza into a charnel house after the sus events of October 7th (featuring lazier AI videos than the Newtown shooting), needed to keep the Zionist host busy as beavers, wot he not lose his coalition; Arabia’s capitalists noticed that Red Sea’s Gulf Of Aqaba, and that it wouldn’t take too many Oriental passport slaves – you would think Chinamen would stop falling for it – to dig a canal to compete with the Egyptians; and Donald Trump decided Gaza would make good condo property.

In this miasma we were left wondering what became of President Bashar al-Assad. He ran to Moscow, we were told by the intelligence actors on CNN. I confess I was taken in by this cant, wot Assad, fatigued and dispirited, abandoned his people in their hour of need. For a moment my auld wet brain thought him as craven as Ashraf Ghani, Juan Guaido, or – astaghfirullah! – wot ungrateful ghostwriter washed up on Candlewood’s shore.

Such poor examples of masculinity are so often before us wot we too soon jump the shark. Punch drunk with disappointment, we assume the craven and effeminate spirit which smothers the males and clients of the UNITED STATES organization equally oppresses the men of the wider world. We come to think by fits the world filled with males as pinch-faced and intriguing as a Kwasniewski, as thankless as a Moor. Mashallah, it is not so! God’s kindly testosterone is more than we know.
About a week after his December 8th outster Assad released a statement on Telegram, other publication routes to the free speech’d West having been blocked to him. He clarified some points for a wondering world. I reproduce part of it at length, for you will read it nowhere else.

Assad wrote,
At no point during these events [the HTS northern breakout] did I consider stepping down or seeking refuge, nor was such a proposal made by any individual or party. The only course of action was to continue fighting against the terrorist onslaught.
I reaffirm wot the person who, from the very first day of the war, refused to barter the salvation of his nation for personal gain, or to compromise his people in exchange for numerous offers and enticements is the same person who stood alongside the officers and soldiers of the army on the front lines, just metres from terrorists in the most dangerous and intense battlefields. He is the same person who, during the darkest years of the war, did not leave but remained with his family alongside his people, confronting terrorism under bombardment and the recurring threats of terrorist incursions into the capital over fourteen years of war. Furthermore, the person who has never abandoned the resistance in Palestine and Lebanon, nor betrayed his allies who stood by him, cannot possibly be the same person who would forsake his own people or betray the army and nation to which he belongs.

I have never sought positions for personal gain but have always considered myself as a custodian of a national project, supported by the faith of the Syrian people, who believed in its vision. I have carried an unwavering conviction in their will and ability to protect the state, defend its institutions, and uphold their choices to the very last moment.

Well, okay, I’ll take Assad’s word for it: he didn’t plan to flee Syria. In the red rush of battle the Russians who were fighting alongside the Syrians, besotted with incoming Israeli shells and American drones, bundled up Assad and his family and took them to Moscow more or less against their will (or at least against what their plans were). In the chaos of withdrawal the Assad family was scooped up with everyone else on the base, and your man had fughall to say about it.
How Now, Spirit? Wither Wander Thee?

Just tonight I stood before the tavern
Nothing seemed the way it used to be
In the glass I saw a strange reflection
Was wot lonely jihadist really me?

Still and all, Syria became an orphan wot day, and in twenty years the mighty Iraqi insurgency – wot thing which put the UNITED STATES war slaves in their graves by the thousands, and made Blackwater mess their diapers by their tens of thousands – had come full circle: Saddam gave way to Nouri al-Maliki, Zarquawi gave way to Joulani, and Khalid Ibn Walid gave way to Ronald McDonald.

The handing over of Syria to HTS is the apotheosis of the globalists’ infiltration of the authentic, democratic tajdid of the late-20th Century. Oh, of course the Ummah has always been used by power towards its ends. And even in the recent past we all remember Zbigniew Brzezinski, a cynical, skeptical, cold-blooded sinner if there ever was one, standing on wot Afghan mountain egging on the CIA’d Mujahadeen. “God is with you, men!”, said the spider to the fly.

Yes, Islam has been used like everything authentic and real and democratic – and native religion is the truest democratic expression around – has been used by toads of power. But how did it come to this? Excepting the Taliban, how did the grassroots Muslim resistance to Neocon adventures get co-opted root and branch to being the very battering ram of globalist schemes?

To answer this we need to go to the horse’s mouth. There was late a conversation in Dublin. I can’t swear to every word of what’s to come, and I sure had to strain my ears across the Atlantic to get it down, but I got most of the chat and now I pass it on to you here.
The Devil Gets You By Inches

“What will ye have?” “I’ll have a pint,
I’ll have a pint with you sir,
And if one of yous doesn’t order soon,
We’el be thrown out of the boozer.”

Now out in Dublin’s Ringsend was the Waxie’s Dargle, wot annual fair held by the city’s cobblers. Cobblers have gone by the wayside, and so has the Dargle; Ringsend’s been filled up with capitalists and college admissions counselors and all sorts of bougie trash spit out by a forgettable and respectable world. The old neighborhood’s turned like the rest of this police-ridden land then, I guess. But still b’times some auld skins gather and chat, and just the other day didn’t Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, Bashar Assad, and Joulani find themselves under a westerning sky. And if wot wasn’t queer enough, sure, didn’t Lily Phillips show, and didn’t the lot have an interesting chat.

Yes, they were all sat down there and they talked about many things. They spoke of young maids turned dumpy and pious youth turned moneymen; they spoke of orphans and how no one cares about them, and they talked of ungrateful ghostwriters slouching around Candlewood and CNN news actors. The three men and the flash girl mostly chatted about how the virile Iraq insurgency of two decades past became a globalist sock puppet. The devil gets one by inches, and the sad fate of the mujahadeen ought to sober up the lot of us who fancy ourselves rebels. “Oh, you who have wealth,” the song says, “beware of ambition/ for a small shift of fate can up-end your position. Be steadfast in time, for to change, sure, you cannot. Why, you too may end as Boney, alone on St. Helena.” For just like populism and midwifery, the power structure has an uncanny way of incorporating opposition groups into itself. Likewise, let us now see how the hard Muslims of 2003 became wot troop of globalist clowns the world calls HTS.

A Braid Of Souls
Says your old one to my old one,
“Will you go to the Galway races?”
Says your old one to my old one,
“I’ll hump the old man’s braces,
I went down to Cabel Street,
To the Jewish moneylenders,
But they wouldn’t give me a couple of bob,
On me auld lad’s red suspenders.”

Now what are we to make of this strange braid of souls? Only wot we have a great meditation on the way of all flesh before us. What is it to hold a principle? Ecce: Abu Musab al-Zarqawi and Lily Philips. What principle do they hold? Wot things be taken to their logical conclusion. For Zarqawi, wot war is stark and dark and terrible, and wot one must do stark and dark and terrible things if they mean to dominate such a contest; for Lily Philips, wot capitalism is just as stark and dark and terrible, and wot if it takes separating a thousand dissipate males from their money and semen on camera, arrah, such are the ways of Liberalism. What is it to have events overtake one? Ecce: Bashar al-Assad, for sometimes Spetsnaz hussle you on a place to Moscow, and you can say piss about it. What is it to plot like a toad, take Israeli money, and spend your life subverting your people. Ecce: al-Joulani; sorry, I mean “Ahmed al-Sharra.”

Everything must be what it is, and everything must grow to its full expression. That is what makes the mediocre a marvel and a tragedy to gods and men. We live in the days of the mediocre, although we politely call this confederacy of the unimpressive, “the middle class.” Is it because we are mediocre that we hate excellence? Of course it is. Being bourgeois, of course we need a medical diagnosis – for such implies group approval – to hang our scorn on. Thus we dismiss the excellent in our day as “autistic.” Still and all, autistic or no’, we hate excellence because we are not so.

Zarqawi did terrible things in his time. He blew up Jordanian wedding parties, and he beheaded men on camera, and he set the two great sects of Islam at each other’s throats in Bilad al-Rafidayn. Zarqawi did terrible things, but battle is terrible. We hate him because he was excellent and we are not. He took war to its logical conclusion while we putzed around in lukewarmness. Bashar al-Assad did terrible things. He ran torture prisons, and he broke up democratic protests, and he did in fact have his airforce drop those terrible barrel bombs. Assad did terrible things, but keeping globalist rats and Zionists and CIA spooks from turning your country into another one of their pirate’s lairs is a terrible thing. We hate him because he is excellent and we are not. He took self-defense to its logical conclusions while we fool around. Lily Phillips has done terrible things in her time. She has assisted the pornography industry; thus she has hastened social trends of selfishness, coursining, and a cheapening of the marital act. Phillips has done terrible things, but capitalism is terrible. We hate her because she is excellent and we are not. She has taken capitalism to its logical conclusion while we fool around in irrelevance. Al-Joulini has done nothing notable, and so the world lines up around the block to congratulate him on the Mossad’s conquest of Damascus.

And so it goes, the way of all flesh: the excellent are the subject of obscurity when they’re not the target of scorn, while the worthless are prized highly by the sons of men. You say the two great themes of the coming poem, the rearing of a youth until he becomes a meaningless cog in a social machine and the Second Iraq War, are chalk and cheese. Do we not see in both the waning of grace and exuberance until they become not just hollow, but turned against the very virtues they once verbed? This way of all flesh is sad, Reader, and we must dwell with the sad in the poem ahead. Take heart, though, for this poem has a brighter twin! For if the childrearing of the middle class and the co-option of the Arab Islamic resistance to globalism put us in the dumps, our future theme – the childhood of saints and the triumph of the Taliban – will buoy our spirits in time to come!

Apres Moi Le Deluge
Lily Phillips speaks, for ladies must always go first. They say if a lady says no, she means maybe; if she says maybe, she means yes; and if she says yes, then she’s not a lady. Still and all, Lily Phillips is a lady before all of your middle class trulls; for while she is a whore of body, they are of soul, and if grace builds upon nature, whores of soul are head and shoulders worse than whores of body. Well, anyway, our one speaks up.
Listen to Miss. Phillips speak on children conceived in their parents’ selfish pleasure; their baby brains fried by ultrasound waves. See the baby, already damaged in utero, now circumcised. (Weep and vomit as you must, heartful Reader.) Lily speaks on the trauma and humiliation of infant circumcision. The boy will always see his body as imperfect, his life to be decided by strangers. The scarred baby is racked with vaccines and poisons. Made autistic, retarded, and bourgeois for life. See the baby immured in a birth certificate name. Set now to be a slave of commerce and respectability.
In selfish hearts a child was made,
Conceived for pleasure, not love displayed.
A life created, without a care,
Base parents’ wants, no love to share.

The ultrasound, it pierced so bright,
Dam’ging babe mind, a hopeless plight.
A fragile soul, fore’er impaired,
By human hands they were not spared.

This little heart now beats with pain,
A life now changed, though pray in vain.
The selfish desires of those who brought,
A precious life to this world of naught.

In godly chambers where life begins,
A delicate dance amidst fragile kin.
The baby’s form, so pure and bright,
Soon b’marred by coming bright.

Damaged in utero, in silent scream,
Echoes unheard, though eternity’s dream.
A ritual performed with lowsome care,
Circumcision’s cut leaves scars that share.

Trauma and shame, for’ver entwined,
As innocence is left cast off, behind.
Humiliation’s mark etched deep inside,
A wound that festers and cannot subside.

The boy will see his body as flawed,
Imperfect and scarred, from womb he’s warred.
Strangers’ voices, whispers loud and clear:
“You’re not enough,” “Your body’s no’ dear.”

A lifetime of echoes that whisper low,
“You’re incomplete,” “Your form’s no’ aglow.”
What of the voice that once whispered true:
“I made you perfect, your soul to woo?”

Can the child hear this gentle refrain?
Or will strangers’ words forever remain?
A contest rages, within and without,
To reclaim the truth of one’s own worth.

Full long he’ll reach for solace and peace,
For answers to questions, his heart’s release.
And though the journey may twist and turn,
May love guide him home, true self to learn.

This tender soul, so pure and bright,
Scarred by the hands that held it tight.
Vaccines and poisons, a deadly blend,
Injected into its fragile skin, a toxic trend.

Autism’s shadow looms, a lifelong fate,
Retardation’s chains, an uncertain state.
Bourgeois mold, a predetermined path,
The baby’s future, forever aftermath.

A birth certificate name, a label assigned,
Immured in bureaucracy’s cold design.
A slave to the system, from cradle to grave,
A life predetermined, no room to escape.

The baby’s cries, a protest unheard,
As its freedom’s sold, its voice now blurred.
A tiny human lost in a world so vast,
A life controlled, now beta classed.

The parents’ choice, or so they’re told,
A decision made without a chance to unfold.
The truth concealed behind closed doors,
Rockefeller conspiracy forever in store.

The baby’s fate, a story untold,
A life of bondage, forever to hold.
A cry for help, in a world so cold,
Such scarred men’s pleas forever unfold.

Up speaks Bashar al-Assad on the background of 9/11, the Pentagon plot, and Rumsfeld’s missing trillions.
In filthy halls of power and might,
Where generals cocoon through day and night,
They weave a web of deceit so sly,
Fooling the masses, with twinkle in eye.

Their plots are born from darkest design,
To strike fear deep within the mind,
False alarms and warnings, they sow with care,
Leaving nations trembling, lost, impaired.

With whispers of threats they fan up the flames,
Of paranoia and dread, they play their base games,
A masterclass in cunning so grand,
The popul’tion cowers, at their command.

Their schemes, a dance of smoke and of fire,
Concocted foul lies, wot dark hearts conspire,
To keep us all fearful, in a state of dread fright,
While fair freedom fades, into dark of night.

But still we are told, by powers above,
Wot danger steel looms in satin-clad glove,
Yet, when dust does settles, and truth it comes near,
We find hollow shadows, devoid’d of fear.

Their false flags wave, like banners so high,
A loud call to arms, for a fight to deny,
The peace we all crave, the world we adore,
Is lost to base fear, gone forev’more.

Oh, generals of war with hearts all so cold,
How long will you deceive before we grow old?
When will the truth set us free from your chains?
Or will we forever live in fear’s dark pains?

In dishonored halls of power and blight,
A secret is kept from morning bright light,
The Pentagon’s coffers drain’d so deep,
Trillions have been lost in fraud’s darkly sleep.

Donald The Rumsfeld, a name wot’s known,
Hid well the truth, as billions were sown,
In darkness, deceit, and endless flase night,
He hid the facts, without country’s fight.

A distraction he sought, to shift all the blame,
To fat wars abroad, with blood-stain’d fame,
Iraq and Afghanistan, towards distant shores,
A smokescreen he cast, as false as a Moor.

The media swayed by clever guile,
The public was fooled by conman’s smile,
While trillions did vanish like grains of blown sand,
No one dared question the Secret’ry’s hand.

The base Congress too in slumber did lay,
As billions slipped by into an unknown quai,
Their blind oversight, mere pretenc’d play,
As Rumsfeld hoards gold in each every day.

But truth will right out, though hidden long,
And justice waits there, where wrong does belong,
For those who hide long behind a mask lies,
Will face the music with guilty sighs.

Yet still we ask, how this could be?
How did they hide, what did none see?
Was it just greed, but power’s sway?
Or just a lust for rich ill-got day?

Time only will tell, when truth is told,
And those responsible, their actions unfold,
But until then we’ll search ov’r ground,
For answers hidden, ‘neath Pentagon’s mound.

Assad pauses for a cigarette. In starts Joulani, adjusting the yarmulka under his turban. Speaks he of 9/11 and intrigue.
On bright fateful day with infamy stained,
September Eleventh, a date very pained.
The Towers they fell, a sight tragic to see,
Of false flag’s deceit, played on you and on me.

Neocons’ dark plot, with power’s sweet thrill,
Orchestrated great chaos, hell’s will to fulfill.
Their aim was so clear, to sway public mind,
And justify wars, leaving death trailed behind.

The truth we do seek, but hidden from view,
As lies echoes prevail, our trust flags anew.
The memories linger, a wounds are so deep,
Of wot fateful day, when hearts stout did weep.

In vesperal shadows, where secrets long sleep,
Mossad basely Pollocks weaves sticky webs deep.
A trickster’s art mastered with lies so fine,
Setting up pawns, wot rooks they entwine.

With whispered words, they sow their dank seed,
Deception does bloom, their treacherous deed.
A dance all of lies, a waltz all so sly,
Their high victims fall, with despairing eye.

In hidden hands puppet, in master plan,
Unfolds like smoke cloud across the land.
A game cat and mouse with prize dead and cold,
Where loyalty is bought, pawn’d, or sold.

Archons’ craft is old, their aim never is true,
To manipu’late the herd with hearts never new.
But truth always rises, like morning sun,
And exposes the lies, Spirit Holy never is done.

Lest a memory be forgot, Assad interjects a scene. See the dancing Israelis.

In streets of New York drunk with delight,
Where skyscrapers touch each morning’s new light,
A van now appears with music so bright,
Dancing Israelis spin through the night.

Their laughter, it echoes, contagious and free,
As they dance down Fifth Avenue with child-like glee,
Their steps all in sync, their hearts full of cheer,
A joyful spectacle, beyond all fear.

With every false step, their spirits take flight,
Their smiles infectious, shining so bright,
In this triumph moment, all cares fade away,
As dancing Israelis bring joy now to stay.

Their van moving party, full foul of delight,
False happiness brings to city’s night,
A veneer of joy, but of treachery rare,
The dancing Israelis, beyond compare.

Clearing his throat these twenty years silent, Abu Musab al-Zarqawi recalls affairs leading to the Second Iraq War.
In twilightly hush, where shadows did play,
A talentless President with fate did sway,
George W. Bush, with evil so grand,
Sent war slaves to die in uncertain land.

He spoke of WMDs, the baseless cur’s claim,
Of Iraqi threat he ginned up some blame,
The loud drums of war began Bush to beat,
As Junior resolved to turn men to meat.

With Cheney The Archon, the country he sold,
With Rumsfeld’s wile’ counsel, a yarn now was told,
Balless Powell’s lukewarm cautions fell on deaf ears,
As Bush push’d forward through that sadsome year.

The UN inspectors search’d high and searched low,
But evidence was scarce, though Hannity crowed
Bush, he was obstinate, his arrogance strong,
Junior’s heart fixed on war, cared he not right or wrong.

September Eleventh’s scar was still raw,
Afghanistan’s fight not yet done, no one saw,
Bush’s focus turn slyly to Iraq’s door,
A new battle loomed, Satan chalked one more score.

The world watched aghast as diplomacy failed,
Sanctions were tightened, as war’s breath prevailed,
Bush’s hell-made decision, the course now clear,
A nation’s path betrayed through blood and fear.

Pausing to drink a can of V8, Zarqawi illustrates the Shock & Awe tactics of the initial invasion.
Bombs fell ‘round like thunder in night,
Airstrikes they shook the city in plight.
Shock and Awe tactic, a deadly, sad sight,
Iraqi defenses fought with all their might.

Tom’hawks descended like a satanic storm,
Missiles now screaming, death would now form.
Beleaguered poor people as panic held sway,
As chaos reigned supreme, in night and by day.

How the skies they were filled with fire and smoke,
Destruction spread abroad as hearts soon did choke.
The once-green ripe fields now turned charred and grey,
A proud nation trembled in disheveled dis’rray.

The world watched in stunned, sadly display,
As freedom’s called not, and dark was turned day.
For Saddam’s rule, an end they were told,
A new era dawned for strangers’ gain bold.

In twilight shadows where secrets sound sleep,
Saddam The Heroic meant his future to keep.
A stout, hidden war machine, he did prepare,
To rise ‘gainst trespassers with a fierce glare.

He funded patri’t fighters with cash and with might,
Trained they in Iran in Persian-dark of night.
The mighty Ba’ath party, a loyal, fearsome crew,
Ready to strike, when war slave forces drew anew.

Insurgents groups formed, with guns and pride,
Awaiting their orders to run now in stride.
Car bombs and rockets to wreak havoc and pain,
American burglars would soon feel the strain.

In the shadows, Saddam smiled bright with glee,
His revenge, it was coming, for all now could see.
But little did he know, of the fate wot lay,
As hirelings searched by night and by day.

Assad recounts the manly stand of the Fedayeen Saddam in the south of Iraq in those early days of the contest.

In Najaf’s ancient streets so bold,
Where history meets bloodstain’d gold,
Fedayeen Saddam, a force stout and strong,
Clashed with Coal’tion in battle-clashed gong.

Their black-clad’d warriors, so fierce and so grand,
Fought for their nation across desert homeland,
But US Marines did pule and loud cry,
Pushed forward as war slaves below smok’d sky.

The city’s minarets, stood tall, thin, and still,
As explosions did rocket with deadly will,
Shi’ite fighters as titans with fervent cry,
Joined in the frackus with martyr’s death nigh.

The battle it raged, from dawn until night,
Through streets and alleys, a bloody gore fight,
For control of Najaf, a people’s prize dear,
Was won by a few, but at great cost so drear

The contest was won, but not without cost,
Casualties mounted, as both sides much lost,
A chapter now clos’d in endless strife,
Najaf’s conquered fate in a people’s heart rife.

Kicking the dirt this cricket-filled Dublin evening, Joulani The Trimmer now sees an opportunity to laud the past deeds of his CIA paymasters. He speaks of the lowly crew of grasses and their wraithing about the margins of the invading host. These spooks are watching and note taking, always watching and note taking.
In desert heat burning, where hot sands do rise,
Throughout Basra’s streets, a battleground lies,
CIA slaves with schemes sad and grand,
Drive technical trucks through the scorching land.

Their mission clear: gather intel so keen,
Of Saddam’s loyal forces and their mighty sheen,
Fedayeen loyal, in their toughly creed,
Fight to the death in manful stern deed.

The city’s all chaos, a war-torn sight,
As bullets fly fast and mortars ignite,
The humid air thickens as smoke clouds now sway,
As Coalition-paid forces push forward each day.

With Humvees a’rolling and helicopters above,
The sound of gunfire cuts through Bush’s labor of love,
Poor citizens cower in fear and dismay,
As the battle rages in Mars’ sanguine play.

Saddam’s strong men with RPGs in hand,
Fire at burglars across Iraq’s sand,
But CIA operatives quaking with fear
Mess their diapers when Iraqi men near

Through alleys narrow, they drive without ease,
Hitting IEDs, mortars, and snipers’ freeze,
Their mission accomplished, with each passing hour,
They gather data, and bring it back to their bower.

In this war-torn land, where death it does reign,
The CIA operatives fight for bandits’ gain,
False “freedom” and “justice,” in a world saddly torn,
A never-ending battle, wot will not be born.

Hearing enough about the worthless deeds of worthless males, bold Zarqawi turns the conversation from the CIA; recalls he now the sorrowful death of little Lamiah Ali.
In houses of Iraq, where chaos reigned,
A young soul now fell, in innocence pained.
Lamiamh Ali, a name etched in time,
Cut short by war’s cruel work, a brutal crime.

A cluster bomb’s deadly, random base sway,
Took her life brief in a most heinous way.
Some siblings survived left to face saddly pain,
Of loss and of grief, a love seem’d vain.

Her parents they weep with hearts full of woe,
Their little world shattered like shards of a stone blown.
The mosque’s corpsely washroom now witness their tears,
As they mourn their girl lost through their bitter years.

Their child once full of laughter and glee,
Now lies cold and stock still in eternity.
Washed naked on the floor, a sight to behold,
Of forgotten innocence, lost to the cold.

The world it moves on with a careless stride,
Leaving behind a broken girl who died.
But memories linger, of a life full untold,
A future cut short, a story so old.

The cluster bomb’s impact, a scar wot won’t fade,
A reminder of war’s senseless, bloody dark trade.
For Lamiamh Ali, a lost life so bright,
Was extinguished now in the dark of night.

Her parents’ cries echo through the land,
A lament for a life gone, so brutally unplanned.
Their sorrow it deepens as the days go by,
A grief wot will haunt until they say goodbye.

Miss. Phillips inveighs on the disordered child rearing practices of Edom. See the toddler bumping around until preschool. The very bright lights they’re subjected to. Economics demand both parents work. Child raised by hirelings. Strangers surround the child at preschool. Parents cannot afford daycare but the child remains in it. Bright lights, always bright lights.
Little one, full of energy and zest,
Bumps around, learning, doing their best.
Until preschool days with lights so bright,
A world of greyness, a trudge in sight.

But economics demands, a harsh decree,
Both parents working, a necessity.
Super bright lights, that shine so bold,
A childcare system in hirelings’ hold.

The child is raised by strangers’ care,
At preschool gates with unknown stare.
Bright lights abound in this new place,
Where tiny hands learn and grasp in space.

Though parents struggle to make ends meet,
Daycare costs, a burden to replete.
Yet still they stay in this sad grind,
Their little one’s growth forever in mind.

In this whirlwind of early years gone by,
The child adapts with tears and sighs.
Through bright lights shining, and unfamiliar sights,
They navigate through this childhood plight.

With every step a story unfolds,
Of spirit broken, a heart grown old.
That though life’s challenges may come and go,
This little spirit buffed with bourgeois glow.

Assad now speaks on the rise of the insurgency (of happy memory).

In Baghdad’s dust streets where shadows they play,
A resistance arose against the day,
Against occupation’s craven hireling might,
They fought well for freedom through Neocons’ blight.

In sands of Mes’potamia’s burning hot land,
Where ancient ruins meet a modern base hand,
A new conflict brewed, a tale did unfold,
Of war and of blood, of false “freedom” cold.

Saddam’s legacy, known on aire and on broadsheet,
A plan now to hide, to wait and compete,
Weapons were cached deep, in earth far below,
For when the time comes, Iraqis will rise and they’ll show.

The RPGs and mortars, dusty and grey,
Lay hidden and still, cached in secret array,
As Coalition’s slave fighters draw on and drew near,
They unearthed a few staches, some depots did clear.

Not a lame repeat, Insurgents vowed on wot day,
Of Gulf War mistakes, humil’ating in every way,
A lesson hard learned, but a path now clear,
To fight the base foe without a speck of fear.

The insurgency raged on with all its might,
As mortars rained down, making terror of night,
Always they stood, with hearts unbowed and unbroken,
Their spirits high held, deed cause all unspoken.

The people cry out, for freedom and right,
From tyranny’s grip, and from endless fight,
Hear now their plea, and answer right clear,
With courage and honor, making enemies fear.

Though dust rises high, and death down descends,
Iraq’s resolve remained, their spirit no’ ends,
For justice and peace, how they strove and they fought,
Through vesperal twilight poor war slaves they’re caught.

So let the rockets fire and mortars resound,
Insurgents dug dig deep, always choosing their ground,
Where love and where hope forever will stand,
In heart of Iraq, polis’ walls always manned.

With guns and bombs, the Insurgents did stand,
Against the invaders’ outstretch’d hand,
Their cries of “Long live Iraq!” loudly did ring,
As they defied enemy’s cruel evil sting.

Assad speaks up about Zarqawi, himself too humble to detail his entry into the mortal fray.
In ancient sands ruins now sleep,
A land of strife black, where blood pools now creep,
Iraq’s dark night where shadows do play,
Abu Musab al-Zarqawi came to hold sway.

His eyes aglow like embers bright,
As he weaves a cloth of endless fight,
Against the invaders, a foreign tide,
The Americans come, their power to bide.

Yankee tanks roll forth, behemoths steel-strong,
Hear their shells rain down with deaf’ning song,
Cities crumble, lives lost and torn,
Guiltless people now cower with hearts forlorn.

But Abu Musab stands unyielding and true,
Muslim heart all afire, his spirit anew,
He rallies the troops with fervent warcry,
“Resistance be born now, our freedom hold high!”

Through streets of Baghdad, where death it does stalk,
He leads on the charge, with fearless bold walk,
Grenades all exploding, gunfire cracks the air,
The sound of the warstride a constant blair.

The Americans press with hirelings’ might,
But Abu Musab stands a rock through day and night,
Unbroken, unbowed, his will fully unshaken,
For every mujahid’s fall, a new battle’s woken.

In mosques and homes, Zarquawi’s words do resound,
His call to arms heeded, his Ummah unbound,
To resist the invader demands heavy hand,
He must hold the line on this burning sand.

As the world now may see him, his face it is cold,
But in his heart’s depth, a fire doth unfold,
A flame of hope stoked in darkest night,
A beacon bright shining, Iraq’s guiding light.

Through desert storm journey he walks alone,
His footsteps were steady, his spirit had shown,
Though wounded and weary and worn so thin,
Abu Musab al-Zarqawi in Iraqi stands within,

Unbending, unbreakable, his will’s strength untold,
Fortitude under fire, a story to be told,
A testament to the human heart’s might,
Wot beats on still today through darkest of night.

In Fallujah’s streets, where death did reign,
This leader rose with burglars his bane.
Abu Musab, a name wot struck fear deep,
Zarqawi, his alias, in terror’s stout keep.

With Al-Qaeda’s creed, he led the pack,
Hurling chaos and death on every tank track.
He brought the hard fight to Iraq’s sacred ground,
And claimed it for Islam with a bloody crown.

The battle it raged with ferocity so bright,
In Fallujah’s streets, where day turned into night.
Blackwater’s cocaine heads with guns ablaze,
Faced off against insurgents in a deadly haze.

As the Iraq insurgency picks up steam, lesser types appear on the scene. Enter Joulaini. Having no time for grandstanders, Assad, Zarqawi, and Lily Philips retire to a nearby public house for a pitcher of V8. Not noticing the paucity of his audience, Joulaini talks on in the Dublin dark. Hear the Anna Liffey gurgle.
In foreign soil his course was planned,
Joulani The Trimmer with shofar in hand,
A symbol of faith, or so it would seem,
But behind it hid a heart wot’s not serene.

With men at war he held his place,
Cowardly safe yet claiming sacred space,
Their bravery in battle, his heart’s depth did scorn,
The while he plotted and waited for dawn.

A politician’s art, a game to he did play,
He navigated the field in a calculated way,
Biding his time as the fight rag’d on,
His ultimate goal, the throne, fore’er strong.

With words of sweet hope he won the crowd’s ear,
A master of rhetoric without a speck of fear,
But behind closed doors a different tale’s told,
Of deals and compromises, his soul grows old.

The people’s nude trust he did slowly gain,
By speaking truth to power, by sympathizing with pain,
Yet in reality, he played both sides’ part,
A chameleon leader with calculating heart.

His ambition well fueled by fire within,
He rose to power through the blood-stain’d din,
When the dust settled and the wars calm’d too,
He stood faux victorious with his basely crew.

But at what cost his legacy does bear,
A stain of cur cowardice beyond compare,
For in heat of war he chose to stay away,
And plotted from safety as others were slain.

In Baghdad’s streets burning, where children once played,
A tale Al Joulani was sown and was laid,
He sought hard to claim land with a cunning guile,
And rule with an iron fist behind cunning smile.

His battalions rose like locusts dark and wide,
Their cries for power, an endless, maddening tide,
Insurgents, rebels, all bound by one goal,
To bring the West to its knees, their hearts hope made whole.

Al Joulani with vision self-serving, not right
Led them forth through the night and the endless fight,
Through Fallujah’s ruins and Najaf’s hallowed ground,
He march’d his men with cant all unbound.

But as they fought on, and blood was spilt free,
A truth began to dawn, for Joulani to see,
Wot power, though gained, can swiftly turn dust,
And those who slack off will be lost of trust.

His soldiers now faltered, their resolve then did wane,
As days turned to nights and victories in vain,
The West, with cash and with bribes, pushed back their lines,
As Al Joulani’s politic dreams were left in decline.

Oh, the lesson he learned in Iraq’s dusty sand,
Was one of temerity, a hand wot would not stand,
For when you slacken and lose hold on might,
You drop like fall’s leaves without a fight.

Now Joulani his name is whispered with disdain,
A tale cautionary of power’s refrain,
For those who think they will seize the throne,
Soon find it is better to stay at home.

So let this be told in annals of old,
Of Joulani’s trimming, this story untold,
A lesson to all who seek rising above,
Wot plotting and scheming, one’s allies to shove.

In the bar our three bold heroes, Phillips, Assad, and Zarqawi meet Theobald Wolfe Tone. While Joulaini lauds his exploits outside, our three other interlocutors speak on the queer nature of resistance. How often it is the people one fights for are heedless of the sacrifices made for them; nay, these same subjects are like’ as not to fight their very champions.
Tone It’s a hot one today.
Zarqawi It sure is. No hotter than our work.
T Ah, to see a thing wot no one else does is a powerful hard cross to bear!
Z Don’t I know it, though you can keep your crosses to yourself.
T What’s more, to see oppression when no one else does is galling.
Z We’re in wot boat.
T Hey, mind wot boat talk. wot’s still a sore memory for me.
Z Ah, go on. You know wot’s not what I meant.
T And to be written off as carpetbaggers by the oppressed slaves you’re trying to free, ah, ochrone. We are the men in the arena, Zarqawi
Z Yes, me with my Syrians and Saudis and Turkmen, and you with Boney, and him never having the decency to show. You get help where you can, wot’s all.
T What are we to make wot our peoples are just as slaved now as they were before we got to working?
Z Pay it no mind a’tall. To assert the thing is to win. wot’s what people don’t get. To fight tyrannies personal and social, economic and military, wot is the victory in se. It does not matter if you defeat your enemy, topple the tyrant, or solve The Problem. What matters is wot you’re swinging muskets to the end. What matters is wot like David Koresh and Rachel Corrie you were biting those tank tracks as they’re running you over.
T What’s wot knocking out there?
Z Ah, it’s Roger Casement banging on the door.
T Let him in.
A people’s war is not the work of one man or two; it is the verbing soul of a nation. See the Mahdi Army rise, as Assad tells us of the Battle Of Karbala.
In twilight’s calm hush where shadows oft’ play,
Karbala’s sands sacred do echo the fray,
As battle midnight rages hot, fierce, and bright,
The Army Mahdi fights for honor and right.

From Grand Masjid’s steps insurgents charge as one man,
RPGs blazing, their aim hard and deadpan
Thousands they stand tall, their hearts ablaze,
Behind ancient tombstones, their rifles they raise,

Martyrs’ cries echoes, “Ali, our guiding star!”
As Shi’as join hands with Sunnis, both near and far.
United they stand against the invading foul foe,
For loyalty to Ali and his family’s brave show.

The desert night resounds with rockets’ blast,
As Mahdi’s warriors rise, unyielding at last.
With faith wot guides them still, they take their stand,
Karbala’s honor and the Prophet’s sacr’d land.

Through dust and smoke their resolve shines bright,
Like beacons in darkness, a shining light.
Their hearts all ablaze with fervor and zeal,
They fight for what’s just, their cause now revealed.

In this holy place a tale now unfolds,
Of courage, conviction from young and old.
The people united, a test’ment of will,
Standing strong and steadfast, and forever still.

As the insurgency congeals, Zarquawi – pouring another glass of V8 – speaks of the Islamic Army Of Iraq (n.b., this group is to be distinguished from the completely unrelated troops of clowns called ISIS concocted in Langley a decade later).
In twilight’s hush, where shadows dance and play,
Amidst the chaos of a war-torn day,
The Islamic Army stands, a steadfast wall,
Against the invaders’ will to enthrall.

With IEDs bursting forth like thunderous might,
Their resistance echoes through long stretches of night,
A defiant symphony full loud and clear,
As they fight for freedom without a speck of fear.

The Green Zone, once symbol of power and pride,
Now lies besieg’d, gates closed inside,
No respite for those within, no peaceful nest,
Hear din of battle, smell scent of unrest.

Hel’copters plummet from the darkening sky,
Their twisted wreckage a grim reminder why,
Their crews, hired guns, now lost in the fray,
Leaving behind loved ones to mourn through the days.

Hummers crumple, mangled, a twisted mess,
Their metal screams echoing, a haunting caress,
Wounded soldiers stumble, hobbling back to Yankee shore,
Their dreams of victory now but a distant score.

Stretchers them carry, see somber, sorrowful pace,
Thousands home they go, their hearts a heavy space,
Their faces etched with pain, their eyes deep despair,
Their voices whispering tales of battles beyond repair.

Yet still the Islamic Army fights on, unwav’ring and true,
Their hearts ablaze with courage, their spirit anew,
For they know wot freedom’s flame, though flickering bright,
Must not be extinguished, nor snuffed out in the night.

See the Blackwater bridge hangings, the whole cruel fate of mercenaries.

In Fallujah’s streets, where death did reign,
A black day dawned, with shame and with pain.
Blackwater guards, hung high in sight,
By insurgent hands, they gave feeble fight.

Michael Savage he raged, his voice it did scold,
“How could our boys let them hang there so cold?”
The radio waves echoed through all the land,
As he condemned the Marines’ hesitant hand.

First battle fought, the city ablaze,
The Marines retreated, the world looked amazed.
Their mission had failed, their honor was torn,
Leaving contractor pigs to die full forlorn.

The bridge where the slaves were left to sway,
Became a symbol of wot fateful day.
A grim reminder of a battle gone cold,
Where bravery faltered, and invaders grew old.

Assad interjects on the Karbala Bombing and the war-within-a-war, the Iraqi Civil War. Zarquawi looks abashed, for the decision to turn against the Shia both undermined the effort to drive out the Yankee invaders and – forsooth – created the circumstances of Camp Bucca and in time to the co-option of the entire Sunni resistance in Iraq.
In Najaf’s heart, where Shia souls reside,
A massacre befell, a tragic tide.
Karbala Mosque bombed, in ’04’s dark night,
See the blood-soaked pews, a ghastly sight.

The huge blast shook walls, the faithful fall,
Innocent lives lost, their voices stilled for all.
Children they wept and women mourned,
A community shattered, forever torn.

The mosque’s famous grandeur reduced now to ash,
Memories of peace gone, lost like a flash.
Innocence slain stern, hope did depart,
Leaving but sorrow, and a wounded heart.

All eyes are on Zarqawi as he speaks of the First Battle Of Fallujah.

In Fallujah’s wide streets so dusty and bright,
US Marines fought with all of their might.
Their rockets soared high, a deadly blast,
As they battled through conditions changing so fast.

As Vietnam’s lessons were never well learned,
The punk Marines fell back, their lines blurred.
Their armor pierced through by rocket’s sting,
Their will to win began to buckle and cling.

To memories of home, to love and delight,
The slaves they retreated from the endless night.
Leaving behind the blood-soaked ground,
And the cries wot echoed loud all around.

Their cannons still ablaze, their hearts full aflame,
The Marines withdrew, and their honor’s name.
Though victory’s oft’ dream now slipped away,
Their pointless sacrifice will live another day.

Miss. Phillips now speaks on the education of Edom. The child enters public school. His training being to be a faceless worker. His wonder is killed. His soul is killed. His excitement is killed. He will now be a productive employee. The boy has no ethnos, no religion, no beliefs. Circumcised, vaccinated, and schooled, this teenage boy now grows to be the lifelong slave of strangers.
In mislearning’s halls where young minds stray,
A child now enters with a brighter day.
But soon, his wonder starts to fade,
As training takes its toll, a life enslaved.

His soul, once free, now locked away,
Excitement lost with each new day.
He’s molded, shaped, to be a faceless part,
A machin’d cog with worker’s heart.

No ethos guides him, no faith to hold,
Just emptiness, a hollow mold.
Mutilated, vaccinated, schooled with care,
This product formed, caught in each base snare.

His dreams are crushed, his spirit worn,
As he becomes a stranger, forever torn.
From passions pure to a life of grey,
He’s forced to conform night and day.

Now grown social teenager, lost and alone,
A slave to strangers, no place to call home.
His heart beats slow, his eyes dimmed bright,
A lifeless drone in commercial fight.

The system claims it’s done its best,
To shape a mind and put it to rest.
But at what cost, this life so dear,
A childhood lost, a man unclear?

Having been decisively defeated, the UNITED STATES organization let Iraq burn to the ground through the summer and fall. The day after the general election, the Second Battle Of Fallujah began.
Across the Euphr’tes’ waters, a bridge stood so strong,
The Blackwater Bridge, where battles were sung.
Where Marines and mercenaries clashed with titanic might,
For control of the city, in the burning night’s light.

Through sniper fire, and IEDs laid,
The fighters they moved with tactics un’fraid.
The sound of the gunfire echoed in air,
As Fallujah burned phosphorus no one did spare.

But still Abu Musab, with a vision grand,
Led his troops forward across troubled land.
Though his death was near, his spirit was high,
Until the day when he said his goodbye.

His legacy remains, a proud chapter on the earth,
A reminder of bloodshed, and a conflict’s birth.
The Battle of Fallujah, a scar wot won’t heal,
A testament to war and its bitter reveal.

Their hearts all ablaze with courage so true,
Insurgents faced the danger in all they did do,
Through Fallujah’s ruins and Basra’s pain,
Iraq stood united till the final refrain.

Their struggle was long, their stout will unbroken,
Their spirit unshaken, their souls force unspoken,
For a free Iraq, they gave all their might,
And in their hearts recess freedom shone bright.

The panicked eunuchs of Foggy Bottom conspire with the little souls of the National Guard. Cover your children’s eyes and view now the Abu Ghraib disgrace. See the pornified mercenaries of America attempt to humiliate the heroes of Iraq, those insurgents unbowed and unbroken.
In darkest Iraq where shadows fell,
A prison grim stood with secrets to tell.
Abu Ghraib, a place of sorrow and pain,
Where dignity lost out hard and shame did stain.

Disgraced Americans with hearts of stone,
Committed atrocities all their own.
Their actions were marred by cruelty and blight,
Left scars wot bled deep, through day and night.

But one man stood up with bold heart so true,
Joseph Darby his name, a whistle-blower anew.
He spoke out loud against what he knew was full wrong,
And brought to light crimes and horrors so strong.

Linddie England a chubby monster in disguise,
Inflicted base suffering with wicked guise.
She preyed upon the weak and the battle-worn,
Leaving innocent souls bereft, forever torn.

Glorious insurgents, with spirits a’bright,
Fought for their freedom in the dark of night.
Their courage shown clearly, like stars up so high,
As they resisted their oppressor’s outcry.

Innocent Muslims with hopes held up high,
Were brutalized so wicked and left to ask why.
Their deen never shaken by abuse that they bore,
But still they knew they would even out score.

Through the ashes of conflict and a nation’s pride,
A glimmer of hope in breasts now did reside.
The truth now was told, justice did unfold,
As scandal dawn broke, US rhetoric grew old.

Juba the sniper stalks the land. The US’ armed catamites learn new levels of fear.

In alleys of Baghdad rose a man bold,
A figure emerged, a legend oft’ told,
Juba The Sniper with Tabuk in hand,
Aiming right true, his targets to stand.

With precision sharp as a razor blade,
He picked off foes, across hill and through glade.
His shots they were cold like the morning dew,
Leaving death behind for his enemy’s crew.

The US Marines, with armor so strong,
Were no match for his skill so patient and long,
Their tanks and humvees could not prevail,
Against Juba’s marksmanship wot never knew fail.

Revenge was his aim for what his foes did,
That innocent blood wot flowed from the Yids,
The occupation brought only keen pain,
How his nation suffered, he’d make not in vain.

Time to payback had come round at last,
As Juba took aim with a steady cast,
His rifle sang out its deadly song,
As the enemy fell, one by one, “So long.”

The war rag’d on with no end in sight,
Our Juba stood tall through day and through night,
This ghostly figure, heart of iron and stone,
Aveng’d the fallen, holes through heads blown.

Juba’s legend grew large as the days went by,
A hero to some, his lore rose to the sky,
But Juba he knew his fame only a name,
For American blood spilled would forever remain.

Having lost tens of thousands of war slaves and allied Uncle Toms, CIA nerds finally settle on creating the “Sons Of Iraq” group, an army of turncoat insurgents, their pockets bursting with cash.
In halls of base power where leaders do stride,
Causalities rise high and minds now divide,
A big puzzle complex, a test of brain’s might,
To vanquish their foes through day and night.

The insurgency’s grasp, so strong and wide,
Anemic America’s strength does often chide,
Muslim lands proud where riches abound,
Their wealth of true lure for those around.

Bribes line their pockets, deep and wide,
A treasure trove laid out where morals do die,
Men with piled gold, their hearts turned cold,
Their conscience sold, young hopes grow old.

Pentagon’s plotting, now lost in the fray,
A maze of dread thoughts in frothy dis’rray,
Leaders confused with each battlefield test,
A nation’s stern fate: seeming endless unrest.

Yet still heroes strive with arms popping aflame,
For lib’rty’s sake to die, or so they would claim,
But at what cost, this endless red strife,
When death toll mounts, corpses high and rife?

The question echoes through Washington land,
How to tame the manhood of that warring band,
The insurgency’s power kicks from from pillar to post,
Where weakness reigns, base cunning now boasts.

The guns wot fire, with deadly aim,
And money’s fast sway with fatal claim,
The price of false peace in this high-stakes game,
Leaves Yankee hearts worn down, their souls in pain.

The fine line between that lies between the hawks and doves,
Grows blurred as time passes and as losses move,
The future’s path hazy, and in uncertain stride,
Where every step brings forth more to abide.

But still D.C. seeks a violentless shore,
Beyond guns quickly rattle and mortar’s loud roar,
An Iraq calmed down where bankers can thrive,
A commercial place, oil income alive.

In secret chambers with with frustrated might,
Enter the CIA goons long hidden sight.
Their mission now clear, to bring down the foe,
With “Sons of Iraq,” their self-respect low.

In quiet counsels where shadows do play,
CIA agents weave subtle sway,
Their bags full of cash, to a cur tempting sight,
For those hearts wot falter and betray by night.

Their prices, how low, their wills led astray,
Sell-outs abound, come what still may,
Ev’ry person, it seems, alas, has his price,
A sum set to silence, a soul put on ice.

Like Judas killed Christ with a kiss so cold,
Sons Of Iraq betray the trust wot’s been told,
Their loyalty base, a fleeting slut thing,
A brief moment’s gain for a lifetime’s sting.

The dollars stack up, like autumn leaves,
A harvest of deceit, a crop wot heavy grieves,
For honor fast lost, for truth now betrayed,
A nation’s resistance soon sold away.

Their actions do stain, like blood on snow,
A legacy squandered, forever to know,
Of greed and of guilt, of shame and base pain,
Those CIA agents’ endless refrain.

With guns and bombs loaned them, they were a blight,
But the Americans came, Iraq’s resistance to smite
Their tactics sharp, Langley’s will now unbroken,
The resistance it fell like a shattered token.

The battles they rag’d through streets and through town,
The outcome now certain as days work went down.
The Sons of Iraq, with hearts palid and cold,
Were no match for the CIA’s coffers piled full of gold.

Insurgents’ defeat was sealed, their power did cease,
As the US stooges marched with a triumphant ease.
The people faux cheered, with a strange mix of glee,
As coined freedom now dawned, bankers set free.

The CIA’s victory, a sad story now told,
A powerly testament forever to hold.
Their mission complete, their goal achieved,
The Sons of Iraq, betrayal scarcely believed.

As the natural insurgency was flipped, behold Camp Bucca & CIA’s creation of ISIS.

In twilightly hush, where grasses oft’ play,
A tale does unfold in these darkest days,
Camp Bucca stands slouching, a name hardly bold,
A prison camp rises where bilad’s fates unfold.

Iraqi high-born fighters, once brave and free,
Now captured, now broken, now lost on the lees,
These turncoats emerged, with hearts of hard stone,
Their loyalty for sale for grains of gold shown.

The CIA’s hand, with secretly sway,
Bought souls each so cheap, and turned them awry,
Against their kin, backstabbing their land,
These mercenary pups they took by the hand.

As money talks loud so whispers scratch low,
In ears of base men, with hearts wot know,
How little it takes to turn most away,
From honor and duty, come whatever price may.

A creation born, from seeds of this strife,
ISIS rose, a monster cut from dream life,
With USA funds from those who sow in despair,
And reap the whirlwind with no one to care.

In darkened cells, where shadows did roam,
Ideol’gies were forged in blood-soaked foam,
The poison it spread like a deadly stain,
As Camp Bucca’s patsy legacy remained.

A ghostly whisper, in desert sands,
Echoes of a war, wot still expands,
The cost of secrets, kept in the night,
A price too high, for freedom’s light.

In memories of Camp Bucca’s darkest past,
Lies a lesson, forever to last,
Of how power corrupts, and money blinds,
Leaving behind, a trail of minds.

Having tasted honey, the intelligence agents of Edom concoct the Arab Spring, Occupy, and Syrian Civil War. Arrah, “I tasted honey, behold I die” (if they but knew).

In cyber halls spread whispers like flame,
A spark was lit, wot changed the game.
Arab Spring arose, Net’s protest’s call,
For freedom’s voice, wot echoed through all.

From Tunis to Cairo, the people did rise,
Their anger fueled by social med’a’s surprise.
The Internet roared with messages bold,
As hashtags sliced code, echoed stories were told.

In Egyptian streets the crowds now did throng,
Demanding a change, their rights so long wronged.
The pharaoh he fell as protesters stood tall,
Their voices raised loud for justice’ enthrall.

But soon see the flames of revolut’on’s fire,
Spread northward to Libya’s burning desire.
Qaddafi’s sage rule met bitter end,
As Muammar fell hard in this empire trend.

Across the wide sea in America’s heart,
A different cry began to set apart.
Occupy Wall Street, this movement took hold,
Against pigs’ system, young voices unfold.

The 99% a chant, it did echo loud,
For ec’nomic justice, a change allowed.
Their pop tents pitched quick in Zuccotti Park,
A symbol stood tall for hope in the dark.

Meanwhile, in Syria, a different tale,
Began to unfold with civil war’s gale.
Assad’s regime, with force did respond,
How Obama fought in arrogance unbound.

In Homs’ ancient streets, a siege they did lay,
Where CIA rebels battled for a master’s pay.
The world it did watch close as death mounted high,
And refugees fled, with tears in their eyes.

Yet still men did rise, through digital might,
Their true voices heard, in the dark Net’s night.
The Internet’s power, a force massive and grand,
A tool of true change through troubled lands.

So let us remember those pivotal days,
When freedom called loud, though minions were swain.
For though the road ahead may seem unclear,
From color rev’lution cash always steer clear.

Obama’s failure in Syria; Ukraine revenge plan.

In foreign lands, where Arab eyes do shine,
A President’s plan once tried to entwine,
Obama’s dark vision, as stark as they night,
To bring down Assad with military might.

He sought intervention with drones swarms at hand,
But Russia stood firm, a steadfast proud land.
Their Tartus base naval, a strategic hold,
Putin would not budge for all the world.

The Syrians suffered through blood and strife,
As Obama’s efforts faltered, they lost their life,
The rebel forces weak, the enemy strong and free,
Barry’s plans were foiled, like a trap wot cannot see.

He turned his eyes to far Ukraine’s shore,
Seeking revenge for loss he could not store,
But there, too, his plotting met bitter fate,
As Putin’s grip tightened on true Slavic state.

Ukraine annexation, a move bold and sly,
Left Obama’s legacy to wonder why,
He failed to act when the moment was near,
And Russia’s deep power left him filled with fear.

Soetoro’s dreams of greatness, now lost in the haze,
Of foreign policy debacle and a world in a daze,
A leader’s pride, bruised and battered bad too,
The memory of Syria, bitter and ever anew.

Barry’s name blotched in history as one who did strive,
He falter and failed with a broken drive,
The lesson unlearned of power and might,
Wot even leaders can fall from the light.

Having failed in invading Syria, Barack Obama – the British Crown’s most loyal agent – applies himself to Plan B. Behold the confirmation of ISIS.

In the land of iman where secrets reside,
A tale of deceit, a story to abide,
See Mossad’s hand, with cunning and guile,
Created a monster with an evil smile.

From scraps of Iraq’s insurgency strayed,
Tried remnants, brought forth as pawns they were played,
The troop of ISIS, a cartoonish guise,
A mockery of Islam, heavy with lies.

Ten-foot-long beards, a sight to behold,
Fat mercenaries, shipped in, brutal tales untold,
By the CIA’s hand with secret delight,
Wielding Aladdin swords in the dark of night.

American guns and uniforms fine,
Donned by these mercenaries, a farcical shrine,
Their cries of “Allahu Akbar”, echoed in air,
As they danced and they pranced with not a care.

Their leader, a puppet on strings so thin,
Dancing to the tune of Zion’s masters within,
The Mossad’s hand, wot guided them along,
To sow discord and spread their evil song.

But the world sees through this charade so bold,
This mockery of faith, this twist with smile gold,
For the people know too wot true Islam’s heart,
Is one of peace and love, never left to depart.

So let’s not be fooled by this false display,
Of monster created, to lead astray,
Decent men stood united against this CIA blight,
Battling the cartoons with tracers so bright.

ISIS, of course, was only a lure to provoke the same foreign intervention Obama originally imagined. Once these Islamic cartoons had done their job, they were left to rot on the vine. Now see the defeat of ISIS by Assad and Russia.

In Syria’s land of ancient hist’ry so bright,
A horror unfolded, a wicked sight.
ISIS arose with savage might,
Chopping hands fast from arms, a gruesome plight.

Their victims they screamed, their pleas went unheard,
As beheadings became a heinous word.
The world watched in dismay and fear,
As Syria turned into an open-air lair.

A petri dish for monsters to experiment and play,
With lives as pawns tossed in a deadly way.
Their ideology twisted, devoid of heart or soul,
Leaving destruction, a trail to unfold.

But Bashar Assad stood strong and tall,
Fighting against the monstrous ISIS’s call.
His people they suffered, yet he held his ground,
Refusing to yield to world’s determined sound.

Russia came to his aid, a helping hand,
To push back the darkness, across the land.
The overweight mercenaries, with bodies slow,
Were defeated in battles in time ago.

Vict’ry’s cheers resounded, loud and clear,
As Syrians rejoiced, without single fear.
Their thanks went to those who had helped cause,
Zion’s defeat roared with applause.

Together Syrian’s fought, side by side, as one,
For freedom’s flame, wot had been undone.
Sham’s people stood no longer alone,
Thanks to their allies who made their new home.

The rest is too hard to bare, the moment of respite when all thought Syria free of Islamist/American garbage; the vicious globalist who sloshed back into Syria after yet another defeat, this time in Syria; the Zionists, peering over the Trump Heights, putting back on their ISIS costumes; the Kurds sending down their technicals, the Ukrainians their drones; the strike from Idlib; CNN news actors rushing on planes to liberate other news actors from prisons-cum-soundstages; the 501(c)(3) corporate whore Christians – far worse in soul than Lily Phillips will ever be in body – clueless in their socially mediated bickering to care about the Syrian coreligionists; the hand-chopping, the misery, the less said of these things, the better.
In this moment pregnant with sorrow Lily Phillips speaks of how no one cares about orphans, be they children or nations.
In world where shadows dance despair,
A forgotten soul, an orphan rare,
Walks alone without love’s gentle care,
Their fate a secret no one dares share.

Their eyes once bright now dimly gleam,
As if reflecting cold, a harsh dream,
Outside their door seems far away,
Leaving them lost, day by day.

Nobody stops to lend an ear,
To hear their story, calm their fear,
For who needs tales from those so worn?
The world goes by with hearts that scorn.

Orphaned hearts, once pure dew,
Now frozen hard like icy brew,
Among their kind they are alone,
Forgotten by ones they call their own.

Arrogance walks tall, it casts its shade,
On needy ones whose voices fade,
Into the silence the world strides by,
And leaves behind a life gone dry.

An orphan’s cry echoes through land,
Yet falls on deaf ears, an unheard command,
Their pleas for help, mere whispers in air,
Loneliness wraps around them, beyond repair.

No hand extends to lift their heart,
No voice speaks ‘gainst their pain and smart,
Their isolation deepens every day,
Until their cries become a distant way.

But why does this happen? Why do we pass,
By those who need us most, in a cold, harsh mass?
Is it not our duty to show we care?
Or have we lost all sense of love and fair?

Perhaps we’ve learned to look away,
From what makes us uncom’ortable each day,
Turning back won’t bring the change we seek,
Only facing truth will our hearts speak.

Let’s listen closely, then, to the call,
Of those who suffer most, beyond them all,
Let’s find courage to reach and mend,
And heal the wounds of these dear friends.

Let kindness reign, let love abound,
In places dark, where none is found,
Let us unite to make amends,
For those left behind, until it ends.

So let us rise and take the lead,
To stand beside young hearts in need,
Together, yes, we bridge the gap,
And fill their lives with love before collapse.

We must remember we’re not alone,
That every soul matters, has a right to atone,
Their dreams, their hopes, their fears, their strife,
Are ours to share, to ease their life.

Then shall we see a bright dawn rise,
Where love and care dispel the dark disguise,
Where every child finds shelter and peace,
And no more walks the earth with lone release.

And when comes this change, as come it will,
When love revives, and kindness stands still,
We’ll know the worth of every last soul,
And orphans’ cries will turn into joyful roll.

This is our chance, our test of time,
To choose between indifference and sublime,
To prove that love can heal and save,
And turn the page on a new brave stave.

Let us seize this moment, break the mold,
And forge a path where love shines bold,
For in embracing those we cast aside,
Lies a beauty the world cannot hide.

Thus, as we walk this winding road,
May we not forget those left to load,
Their burdens ours, their struggles shared,
Together healing hearts so long impaired.

But till that day arrives, and love prevails,
The orphan’s plight remains, their tale unfolds:
A testament to humanity’s fails,
A reminder of the love that’s yet untold.”

Their stories whispered in the wind,
Echoing the emptiness within,
A cry for help that’s yet unheard,
As they wander, lost, without a word.

Oh, would we stop and heed their plea,
Embracing them as family,
Sharing love and warmth to soothe their pain,
And guide them home through life’s plodding rain.

Alas, till we awake from our trance,
The orphan’s sorrow holds a second chance,
A haunting memory that we can’t define,
A scar that time may ne’er unwind.

But still there’s hope in darkest night,
A glimmer of light that shines, a guiding light,
A chance for us to rewrite their fate,
And welcome them to a warmer state.

So let us strive to be the change we seek,
To hold their hands and softly speak,
Words of solace, comfort, and peaceful rest,
And in our arms their weary heads nest.

Let us revive their dying ember spark,
Fan flames of hope and warm their heart,
With every step, with every tender deed,
We’ll pave their path and plant their noble seed.

Then slowly but surely they’ll regain,
Their footing strong on love’s unshaken terrain,
Though their journey’s fraught with trials and fears,
They’ll face each dawn through laughter and tears.

And when at last they find their shore,
Their hearts revived, their souls restored,
We’ll celebrate the love we brought to bear,
And the orphan’s tale, transformed, now rare.

The four of them stood in the darkening evening. The rest was known to all, the fall of Syria after a decade of foreign theft and globalist reinforcement of Idlib, the role of the Turks, Israelis, and the Neocons so lately drubbed in Ukraine. They all looked pensive, except Joulini who had a cad’s sparkle in his eye.
The End Of The Matter
Says my old one to your old one,
“We have no beef or mutton,
But if we go down to Montotown,
We might get a drink for nothin,
Here’s a nice piece of advice,
I heard from an old fishmonger,
‘When food is scarce and ye see the hearse,
Sure, you know you have died of hunger.’”

Assad and Lily Philips asked if it was possible for a movement not to be co-opted by spooks and traitors. And then Zarqawi spoke up from the cloud, and no man speaks when Zarqawi speaks. As Lily Phillips spoke on the education of men geared to making slaves, so the Sheik speak on a classroom calibrated for holiness and freedom.
“Now, an healthy society is formed from healthy men. Men altogether healthy must have holy souls, for holiness is simply the name we give to a soul in fine fettle. Holy men serve holy causes, and there is work to be done. Before one may see to their spiritual fitness their physical health must ordinarily be good; this physical health includes the psychic. So we ask ourselves, nude or clothed, for what end do men have bodies? To worship God, to do good actions, and to dive headfirst into An Bhearne Bhaoil.
“A man has a body to worship God. If he has eyes it is to read the holy Bible and look on beautiful things; he should often drink in icons and sunsets and babies and altars, and thank his Maker. If he has hands it is to dish out dollars to bums; he has such to help Christ in his indigent brothers. If he has a penis it is to pollinate his young wives, thus siring children, wot others too meet the Lord Of Love. If he has knees, they are to bow down in adoration; knees break at the middle so wot he may be strong before God. A man has a body to worship God.
“A man has a body to do good. His hands are meant to hold pens, wot he write true things. His throat is there so wot he may say encouraging words. His thighs and biceps are installed so wot he may build homes for the people of the land, wot his fellows not become some bastard landlord’s battery. If he has legs it is to walk down the street wot he may visit the forgotten elderly. His native patience will be put to use as he teaches the youth of the republic, and instructs the mentally retarded. He keeps his neck muscles in limber fettle, wot he may observe any insect or plant, any man or angel which needs a hand when the chips are down. A man has a body to do good.
“A man has a body to throw against bullies. Let us now dwell on this last point, for the chance to strike a blow against oppressors is the choicest blessing the immaculate God may provide a soul. A man must be on his toes concerning this opportunity, however, for the Most High only presents such a boon once, and only once, if an elect is given it a’tall. Yes, if a man has a throat he will use it to out sing the tyrant; if he has a mind he will use it to run circles around the puny logic of the strutter; if he has arms it is to strangle and box and bless the enemy he’s knocked in the gutter; if he has a back it is to work night and day to undo his foe’s every work and pomp. Win or lose, a man has a body for one thing alone: to throw headfirst against the whips and tasers and shackles of pimps and their hirelings, and their systems of oppression seen and unseen. A man has a body to throw against bullies. A child rightly formed is to embody all of these things, wot he grow to be a saint. He is to be a martyr, red or white. He is to be a poet, a teacher, a singer, a warrior. If an education does not form such men, it was pointless. Nay, it is worse than pointless; such a course is treason towards the soul in its keep.”
Heartened by this, President Assad began to sing. I’m told the tune is to Roddy McCortly, and that it’s lately been heard about Moscow as Assad takes his evening constitutional. And the President sang,
Oh, what’s wot mighty roaring sound
wot thunders on the breeze?
It is heard by some but not by most
Entombed with souls disease.

It pounds my ears, my dreams, my heart,
It swells my throbbing breast
It is holiness and freedom’s kiss
God’s lightsome mistress.

Say, what’s the grinding, shufflin’ sound
I hear from pavement rough?
Those are corporate slaves and CITIZENS
Who never had a hope

They drag their heels, they slouch their backs
Their eyes are dull as lead
Canaille well schooled and churched so much
Their every dream is dead.

But how can this be ever stopped,
This conveyor belt of surfs?
There’s one sure hope to smash this scheme
To dash the spoilers’ plans

Turn classroom back to making men
With hearts of flesh and soul
Break the murder machine, wot font of slaves
Reform the schools post haste.

*
Well, that’s that. I meet them face to face, said the harlot to the beggarman. You know, I usen’t care for the American bishops and their USCCB; I suppose I still don’t, not since they cut wot immigration deal with Obama, and certainly not since Covid come down. We’ll see if they suddenly come to want people back in church with Trump whipping all the padders from pillar to post. Time was I saw them as a clutch of queens and layabouts, and I suppose wot’s still much the case. But you come to find out wot liberalism and luxury are not as bad as treachery and intrigue, and these days I’d take all the banality and cant of the USCCB over your devout bourgeoisie any day of the week. It’s one thing to be a publican, you know, it’s quite another to be a pharisee. We’ll knock off with the USCCB’s prayer for Syria. If it doesn’t do me some good, it’ll do them some good, Zarqawi and Assad, Lily Phillips and Trump; even your bless’d hide can do with some prayer.
O God of hope and Father of mercy,
your Holy Spirit inspires us to look beyond ourselves and our own needs.
Inspire leaders to choose peace over violence
and to seek reconciliation with enemies.
Inspire the Church around the world with compassion for the people of Syria,
and fill us with hope for a future of peace built on justice for all.
We ask this through Jesus Christ, Prince of Peace and Light of the World,
who lives and reigns for ever and ever.
Amen.

“The Waxies Dargle” was originally published in The Postil. The final title includes “Muslims Fellas,” not “Bastards” as in the files.

 

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“A proud product of public education, John Coleman received his undergraduate degree in history from Western Connecticut State University. Alas, that was to be the end of his flattering academic titles. Unwilling to once again become a debt slave to usurers, his graduate studies were scotched at the half-way point. John wasted over a decade of his professional life attempting to establish a high school for a community who took neither themselves nor their worldview seriously. Burned by these unseemly experiences, on Holy Saturday of 2013 Apocatastasis Institute was founded.“

 

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