This is an archived blog post from The Acorn.
Good people all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wondrous short,
It cannot hold you long.
In Sopore in Kashmir there was a man,
Of whom the Hurriyat might say
That a necessary but violent race he ran,
In Pakistan’s pay.
A deadly and ready gun he had,
To kill friends and foes;
The Kashmiris every day he freed,
When they exploded at his blows.
And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp and hound,
And curs of low degree.
The dog and the jihadi were never friends;
But when the jihad began,
The jihadi, to gain his private ends,
Tied a grenade according to plan.
Round and round the neighbouring street
The mujahidog ran,
As it happens, he missed his hit,
And killed not a man.
The blast it seemed both sore and loud
To every Kashmiri eye;
While they silently swore the jihadi was mad,
They knew the dog would die.
Sure enough not a wonder came to light,
That showed the people they were right:
The jihadis escaped without a bite,
The dog, poor dog, it died.
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