Monday, 3 June 2013

My Friend Mohammed

My friend Mohammed
is the loveliest guy:
he once told me that Bambi
always makes him cry.

He works at a fruit stand
in the market, the palaver's
one he really enjoys. It's just off the Strand.
And every Sunday he helps out his father.

My friend Mohammed follows
the Five Pillars: faith, dedication,
charity, fasting - a pilgrim; he knows
he'd always be happy, even on a ration.

He often makes jokes, his keen sense
of humour: at the market, he says,
'What will it be? Two pannets for
a pound? Don't Mecca fool outta me...'

But his Uncles in Luton
are very unhappy: they don't
speak good English, and
the whole town's quite crappy.

He says, 'They'd leave if they could
but everyone's there: their wives,
their daughters, their friends. They would,
but try moving on forty years - their heavy lives.'

My friend Mohammed likes to pray
at the Mosque, whenever he's not busy.
He says, 'Come see for yourself, come lay
your assumptions before God - or is that too easy?

'Allah is all mighty and all good -
it's just a few morons left in the Dark Ages.
Your people had their crusades, this
is the same. Nothing bad lasts. But I'm no sage.'

My friend Mohammed has lovely parents:
they're not Pakis or towel-heads or niggers or blacks.
But they cook for me no longer. They're holding remembrance:
their boy died last week in an arson attack.

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