The Sheikh of Knightsbridge

Mohammed “Who” has tumbled from Providence’ Graces ?
So many Mohammed’s abroad, I confuse their rostrate faces,
Though quite a popular name among the Mid-Eastern races,
Those of the fetid deserts, chawing on Islam’s grist,
Disciples of the Prophet. (Another Mohammed to the list )
Conducting their inane Jihads, for some Cause, or for Self,
Quite alike this one’s Crusade, focused on Personal Wealth.

From the Land of the Pharaohs, and the Enigmatic Sphinx,
This Bedouin Costermonger, of rumoured Sinister links
To the Voodoo Priests of Haiti, and Brunei’s Corrupt Elite,
And the Despotic Emirates. ( A Hallowed Terrorist Retreat )
‘Tis bruited he started Life robbing tombs and trading goats,
Established his First bank account with Promissory Notes,
Vended paraffin and poodles, and selections of old rope,
Once courted gross Insolvency due a Monopoly on Soap.
( For in Greater Araby, naught discerns wheat from chaff,
In their water-deficient culture no-one ever takes a bath )

So to Western climes he ventured, our Nomadic Peddler,
As a Barterer of Influence, an Evolving Political Meddler;
Via sly Fiscal Legerdemain, and Unctuous Semitic wits,
Became the Sole Proprietor of Gaul’s prestigious Ritz.
And Onward the grim March, of Capitalist Prostitution,
To gain Hegemonic control of that Great British Institution,
Harrods : the Purveyors of Exotic Soups and Marmalades,
Besieged by warring Tycoons and their Litigating Brigades.

Damn thee, House of Fraser, thy scant Moral Worth be spent,
If the Food Court now stocks Swill served in a Bedouin’s tent,
Fried locusts and boiled durra, and camel ballocks stew,
Or unctuous canned Baklava. It’s enough to make one Spew,
Our Revered shelves festooned with viscid figs and dates,
Invoices writ on Papyrus, rancid Fedayeen guard the gates,
While Muezzins bawl from balconies the tariff on Prime Cuts,
The Mezzanine’s chock full with Klepto’s, and vulgar Arab sluts
Haggling for huge discounts, in their fustian chadors and veil,
Demanding deliveries to Jeddah, buying Tampax by the bale.
Old Henry Charles Harrod perhaps turns restless in his Grave,
Disposing of his Magnum Opus to a Muslim Mammon’s slave.

Next, we’ll acquire the Dorchester, ( for our Brunei Benefactor )
Entrepreneurial Conjuring designates the Preferred Contractor;
A wee Castle in bonny Scotland ? The Price is Always Right.
( Another absentee Alien Landlord who only stays the Night )
Earn derision from the Ghillies, you squatting in the heather,
Sans socks, or a pair of jocks, and Flipflops in that Weather !
The Thane of Glanis now become ! Ha ! A Bedouin in a Kilt ?
Perhaps sell out All to Lonrho, before they prove thy Guilt,
For their Demented Fuhrer has vowed see thee Crucified
Due your Treacherous Duplicity. ( Has Tiny never Lied ? )
The Roll Call of Friends and Aficionados dwindles to a few
The Man has gained More Enemies than Hitler ever knew.

Now again your Polemics bend the stalwart British ear,
Obsessed by Conspiracy Theories, all Verbal Diarrhea,
Let Dodi and Di sleep peacefully, to seek Eternal Bliss,
Your fault for hiring chauffeurs who drive while full of Piss.

Maybe it’s time to fold thy Tent and find another Oasis,
No Brit’ citizenship for you, via Merit or the Old Boy basis,
No Knighthood or seat in the Lords for Anglophiles of thy Ilk,
A Third Estate Honour, the Monarch’s Dub and Azure Silk,
Reserved for Boilermakers and Tranters of the Royal Milk.
We’ve grown nauseated and weary of thy Byzantine scandals,
And Pretentious Posing in a Bowler, Pinstripes and Sandals.
Unquestionably, Mr. Al-Fayed, Britain has gone to the Dogs,
Perhaps through our Indulgence of Greedy, Scheming Wogs.