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January 11, 2003
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A true poem about Islamic terrorists

A moronic leftist British poet, has written some anti-American garbage:

They read good books, and quote, but never learn a language other than the scream of rocket-burn. Our straighter talk is drowned but ironclad: elections, money, empire, oil and Dad.

To read the rest of this story, click here. Over 150 people have responded with their own poems. There are some excellent entries, but according to Asparagirl (and I agree), one stands out:


Roses are red
Violets are blue
All your stupid Islamofascist friends are going to be hunted down and killed like the vermin they are and their remains will be left to rot in the gutter and be fed on by rats and cockroaches and they will spend their eternity in the hottest corner of hell with their 72 "virgins" consisting of aging former members of really bad boy bands with not a good-looking goat or camel in sight
And so are you."

Note: in no way am I calling for the murder of all Muslims. The poem above is dedicated to the Islamic terrorists from Al-Qaeda and the Palestinian Islamic Jihad - that said if you are a supporter of the above mass murderers, consider yourself targetted as well.

Tim Blair who started this whole thing has published the poems, including those that are not linkable. I copy the full list below.


The Andrew Motion poet laureate challenge has been met by, oh, about 150 superior poets, including Joanne Jacobs, Justin Katz, Laurence Simon, Peter Briffa, Acidman, Barry Briggs, the Rottweiller, Frank J., Uncle, Andrea Harris, Michele Catalano-Brejwo, David Janes, and Tom "call me dipnut" Perry.

Among poets whose work is of a non-linkable nature, we find … Will Warren! Will briefly un-retired himself to write this tribute to Motion's Causa Belli:

COURSES YUMMY by Will Warren

They knead, good cooks, and gloat, but never burn
a flan or other creamy dish: that, you can be sure, they learn.
Our waiter's walk is far from straight: like Dad
he's soused, but brings my salad: oil, well clad.

Brazilian super-poet Nelson Ascher – this is so cool; I'm publishing an Ascher original! – contributes a plaintive lament:

POOR ENGLAND by Nelson Ascher

To have as poet laureate Andrew Motion
whose business is not verse, but self-promotion,
seems bad enough, but then it's more appallin'
to think he'll be succeeded by Tom Paulin.

Quite aside from the quality of his words, Jim Whyte deserves inclusion for his poem's title and his lyrical nom de plume:

COSI FAN BELTI by Adelard Moonbat

Where do they get this verse of rocket-rage,
Which Guardian finds worthy of its page?
Mayhap, its bien-pensants still crave his sound,
But that Motion lad's a knothead, I'll be bound.

Jim was among many to point out that "Mooshu's Latin stinks. The Latin phrase in international law is 'casus belli' (case or event of war) and not 'causa belli' (cause of war). Masefield or Tennyson wouldn't have made that mistake, and neither would more competent newspaper editors (but it's the Guardian, after all)."

Quite so. Now, on with the verse:


They whinge and scream but never suggest
How else might power from Saddam might be wrest;
Pampered pacifists have never heard
That keeping the peace takes more than words

Angie Schultz has Motion properly pegged as yesterday's poet:

CAUSTIC JELLI by Andrea Stoppage

He would turn the tide of Hell
With four poor lines of doggerel.
You can see the man's behind the times:
He writes poetry *that rhymes*.

Glen Johnstone sees up upside:

They carry bright torches, chant, and so yearn for a day when the Westernized world all will burn. For pursuit of that course we should all be quite glad: contrasts with idiots are good to be had.

If I knew how, I'd write music to accompany Joseph Latino's beautiful verse:

They drink good wine, but never try To understand that brave men die So they can carp, and whine, and cry That freedom's leader isn't a fucking idiotic socialist appeaser of fascism.

Liz Feizkhah has a theory on how to stop the Motion:

BEER BELLI by Andrew Motion

They buy my books, and say, This stuff is shite
But that doesn't stop me preening, or dashing off more tripe
Once you're Poet Laureate, you can never get the sack
The only way to shut me up is to invade Iraq.

History lesson #1, from Donnel Jones:

He's read his history yet fails to learn How cowed the move of Chamberlain's concern. To speak more plainly: evil has the notion It's bosom pals with men like Andrew Motion.

And history lesson #2, from Christopher DiGrazia:


"No blood for oil!" We hear the cry -
"No daddy's shrub sends us to die!"
But when it's Clinton, it would seem,
"Bomb the Balkans!" is the scream.

Ken Summers didn't like Motion's meter, so in his poem he's changed it to something a little more "hip":


Roses are red
Violets are blue
All your stupid Islamofascist friends are going to be hunted down and killed like the vermin they are and their remains will be left to rot in the gutter and be fed on by rats and cockroaches and they will spend their eternity in the hottest corner of hell with their 72 "virgins" consisting of aging former members of really bad boy bands with not a good-looking goat or camel in sight
And so are you.

Loretta Serrano hits a Will Warrenesque note:

BIG BELLI by Loretta Serrano

We read cookbooks, sautee and never burn
an omelet; golden with a single turn,
Our simpler fare is drowned in sauce b้arnaise,
Al dente, honey, olive oil and mayonnaise.

Adriane & Tami Wollaston combine warfare and skincare, and introduce to poetry the phrase "goggled cavalry":

The cause of war is simple, S. Who'sinsane's a pimple. And how to fix a pimple ... Please. Send the night-visioned goggled calvary o'r the desert sands in the dark of the early March 2003 new moon and squeeze, squeeze, squeeze.

Nobody dares deny that Rob Toth is, as he claims to be, the poet laureate of Bayonne, NJ, USA:


Us hippie schnooks, we always spurn
Any cause harder than 'Turn, Turn, Turn'
We talk, talk, talk, and boy we're glad
Our constant chit-chat's sponsored by Dad.

Look out! It's lefty blogger Vaara, come to beat up on us brutish conservatives:

They have computers, ISPs, and lovely site design, So they can just repackage fucking crap they've found online. They call themselves "Warbloggers," but the truth is more obscene: It's the greatest circle-jerk that our poor planet's ever seen.

No, that would be American Bukkake 7. Matt Walter of Washington, DC, took the oft-scorned ee cummings path:

poet laureate, poet laureate impart on us your peaceful wishes for the appeasement of monsters while your head remains buried in sand the world must be surprised and impressed by your stance against war, i wish you would visit iraq to see the misery the shame human shield, human shield we beg thee one less talentless poet laureate

jane galt … hey, the keyboard's stuck in ee cummings mode! … Jane Galt sympathises with the folks who pay Motion's wages:

A simple poet, talking straight to power: "Those meanies haven't asked me how to cower!" How must it grieve the taxpayers to find Their simple poet has a simple mind.

LA's greatest Greg, Greg McIlvaine, sends this gem:


I know that I'm wise 'cause I have a degree
I think history started in 1960
If I ignore evil and really hate war
The islamofascists and homicidal dictators won't kill us no more

The irredeemable Wogblogger aims to offend most everyone:

He writes fine words but bitches 'bout the dopes and cretins, gimps and dumbos, wogs and slopes who call him to his face a dickhead poof: appeaser with his fist all filled with spoof.

Imre Salusinszky – Oxford grad, poetry maven, and who actually knows Andrew Motion – would appreciate the Wog's work. His poem:

CAUSA GETFUCKEDI by Imre Salusinszky

They read crap books by Chomsky and Mike Moore
then quote and whine and sermonise and bore.
Our straighter talk is drowned but ironclad:
wankers, pinkos, fools, and poets bad.

Out of Cincinnati, Ohio, the majestic Mel Kreitzer writes:

UPSET BELLI by Lacking Notion

They eat good food, but never learn
That this can lead to bad heartburn
My poem sucks but my heart is pure
'Cos my appointment is a sinecure.

Scott Helgeson talks power to peaceniks:

They read good, and quote, and write junk, but Dude! We're much smarter 'cuz we march in the nude. Our hippy talk is 'cool', but made fun of a lot: Bad poetry, Marxism, Sean Penn, and pot.

Kevin Bloom defines our era:

They read good poems, bad ones too know not the difference between the two. Turgid rhymes are all the rage; in the whiny Causa Belli Age.

Eric Alexander ponders the biological improbabilities of Andrew Motion:

COARSE, BIG LIE by Stupid Potion

How did I end up born? The slowest sperm
must have been lucky, though clearly infirm.
The fact I have this job proves merit's bad
at shutting idiots up about Baghdad.

Another poet laureate – Dave "poet laureate of Hill St, Saco, Maine" Schipani – takes on his English counterpart:

OFF THE SCALE-I by Stupidity Quotient

They sip fine wines, and sniff, and won't admit
That one G.I. is worth a million Pommie twits.
I wonder if their poems would suck as bad
In German (or in Russian.) Ike was had.

"You know, it's not easy to find a rhyme with 'leftists'," writes Billy Hollis:

They read bad books from commies and greens Their opinions were frozen when they were just teens Oh, pity the plight of the modern day leftists Of all the lost souls, they must be the bereftest

Could Motion next become the poet laureate of Iraq? We, along with Sheryl Veazey-Rudy, can only hope:

Perhaps 'Drew studied verse; one can't discern The verity of this from his most recent turn. Like Sarandon, suppressed speech makes him so mad. Perhaps there's better laureatin' to be done in Baghdad?

And we'll end with Alex Bensky's "sheer, talentless doggerel" which is nevertheless, as he says, "equivalent to at least one effort of England's poet laureate". Thanks to all who versed, and apologies to the many who weren't published.

I've got a notion That Andrew Motion Should take a potion And go jump in the ocean.

UPDATE. Imre Salusinszky writes:

It is true that I know Andrew Motion, albeit slightly: he was a friend of my supervisor at Oxford, John Fuller. I also know his ex-wife, Joanna Motion, who showed her superior taste and judgement by emigrating to Melbourne.

To be fair to Andrew Motion, all lovers of poetry owe him a debt for the excellent job he did in editing the letters of the greatest poet of the 20th century, Phillip Larkin. However, if Andrew had spent less time lately reading Chomsky and Pilger, and more time reading Larkin, he wouldn't have written his silly poem, or added his shilly-shallying comments to it. Larkin, who died in 1985, was an enormous fan of Margaret Thatcher, and would have zero tolerance for the leftie-fascism-appeasers who dominate the "arts community" now, as they did in his own time. He despised them.

Posted by David Melle at January 11, 2003 08:15 AM

Great stuff! Counteracts all the absolute IDIOCY of the appeasement and pro-tyrant movement;A.N.S.W.E.R,IAC,Ramsey Clark [devil incarnate], CAIR, & the rest).

Posted by: Chuck on February 3, 2003 01:27 PM
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