Saturday, 24 January 2015

Ahmed, the dead terrorist

I assume you've heard of Jeff Dunham, the American ventriloquist, but you might be more familiar with his famous sidekick, Ahmed, the dead terrorist.

This piece of elementary satire chronicling Ahmed's life is written in the Standard Habbie (albeit it doesn't follow the standard rhyme scheme) and was composed in honour of Jeff's wee, bushy-browed skeleton. It also takes a few pot shots, in passing, at Ahmed's fatal trade.

O you, who would your own life take,
you'd spare no one who tails your wake.
Wrapped up in Semtex with a fuse,
you are Ahmed,
to all intents a terrorist
who'll soon be dead.

I stand aghast at your Plan B,
which is the same as A and C,
by that I mean it's all the same
to you Ahmed:
when job is done, you're blown to bits.
You're off your head.

You must've had your brain washed clean
of sovereign thoughts. Your tiny bean
debased by what your Iman said
to you Ahmed:
your sacrifice is needed now
O zealous man.

You studied hard when you were young
and grades you got were good. Among
your peers it's thought you were ordained
for fame Ahmed.
Your chosen line of work now seems
a dead end job.

If you believe three-score and more
of virgins wait for you like whores,
make sure you wear clean underpants,
but not Ahmed
in case a bus will knock you down
--in case it's true.

Your suicide is no brave act.
It's cowardly and that's a fact,
and storied heroes long in graves,
like Saladin,
would turn towards the setting sun
at your disgrace.

Death-wish martyr's missions gory
are shunned by men. Not for glory,
nor for riches are you fighting
my sad Ahmed,
but for shame and mean dishonour,
you mad devout.

You're far too keen on rubbing out
your sketchy life. Wrapped in a clout
of wraith or shade, eternal void
awaits Ahmed.
You're pencilled in for graphic pain
and charcoal dust.

You're certain to explode in vain
on hopeless foray seeking fame,
but nothingness is what's in store
for you Ahmed.
And who shall weep at your demise?
Not puppeteer.

Will you explain when victims swoon
in tattered rags in ante-room
at heaven’s gate and ask you why
O poor Ahmed,
what made you blow them all to bits
and kingdom come?

But wait... you made a call alas
with cell-phone when you stopped for gas
and prematurely set it off.
You bombed Ahmed.
What's meant was done. What you desired
was just ill-timed.

Now floating on the desert air
in dancing embers, medium rare,
your comic threat is heard by all.
Too bad Ahmed,
it sounds like you're a marionette.
Silence – I keel you!