My Neighbour’s From Rumania
A song in the style of Half Man Half Biscuit:
Picked the lad up at twelve
Another round of expensive education curtailed
School had texted:
“Some cunt’s being marched to his grave”
It dismayed me to note
That his name was Abdullah, not Dave
I wonder if the martyr’s feeling smarter
In the knowledge of his part
In bringing western civilisation down?
Or is the unlucky sod still wearing his frown ferretskin stole?
(He was booked in for back waxing before the traditional Friday stoning, after all…)
Dropped by the local madrasah
Who were none the wiser
All that nutting the floor
Had ’em in a daze
Got a pizza, came home
Had a kip, got on the phone
To the missus
Who once went to Mecca
(Not the bingo, mind)
Still dismayed it was Abdullah
Not Dave
I said:
Hello dear
And asked her if she knew he was dead
She said “What: you’ve fixed the bed?”
The lines here are not always clear
And Abdullah’s gone to his grave
While Dave’s getting ready for another night
Of unIslamic rave
But at least my neighbour’s
From Rumania
A claim that most are unable to make.
More to follow (perhaps)