String your rifles and turn them to guitars,
O seething lords of the caliphate,
And with the darling doves let your missiles fly
in echelon, leaving dark owls behind.
The lord’s children yearn more for music
And pretty sights in the sky!

But look what you serve them: pillage,
bondage, sacrilege, …
All in the name of Heaven!
Hell’s favorite dishes–how well you cook
them!
Your vicious band of soiled souls roam the
sands of Arabia
Weaving a plague of death and anarchy,
And how you delight in it!
Treasures that even vandals spared, you have
readily speared–
Churches, books, monuments, …
Not one have you skipped in this orgy of terror.

But Heaven in whose name you hurt now grieves;
Her tears well up in the hearts of the virtuous.
Slowly they’ll gather into furious streams
That from breasts weary with pain
Shall erupt and sweep this caliphate to a surly fate.