Oh Kushite muses, open wide my lips Regardless whether blood or honey drips, To speak against the backwardness of those Who progress, light, and liberty oppose. To clarify a theme of clannish wrong While nomads move the camel-herds along. Animal husbandry takes on new meaning: Their brides sewn shut; their pasturelands are greening; Sheba’s daughters cheated of their pleasure, Despoiled through painful plunder of their treasure.
Filthy blade in hand, the crone bears witness. The girl in terror, clueless, cut, then clitless. As if this weren’t enough, infibulation Ensures the bridegroom’s ****** *******. The honeymoon brings every husband joy: Reopening the wrapping on his toy. Where knife or horse-whip place their gentle kiss, there Kushite swains deliver nights of bliss. And nine moons later, motherhood, grown mild, is opened yet again by blade for child.
From Kush to Punt, on Afric’s burning horn, Sadistic ways cause modern minds to mourn. We wonder how this barbary was born . . . Many Bantus, and Ishmaelites as well consign their birth-machines to living hell. Explain to me how Satan sold this rite to those who dwell in bio-****** night? Veiled in flesh, her godhead cast aside Subjected to some herdsman’s wounded pride . . . Let Kush and Punt, their glory days recall; Their daughters drink the wormwood and the gall.
Old scars, reopened, threaten to infect What multi-culti feminists protect. (But no one ought to talk about such things because of all the prejudice it brings.)