Terrorism and plagues

Ratless
Far off infections in distant places,
primitive people with pock-marked faces.
When we hear of the plague, it's with such phrases,
but an epidemic's now in its later phases.

The bug comes from bats and Ebola's its name.
On a plane from Liberia, the virus it came,
and now we won't touch and we're scared to embrace,
'cos we're frightened of being the latest case.

In London alone, half a million are dead.
Over twice that number perspiring in bed.
They know for certain that their time is near,
living their last days in blood, sweat and fear.

In all the big cities there's no more commuting
and shopkeepers' livings are ended through looting.
The streets are unsafe, no policemen in sight.
Too many have died, so they gave up the fight.

And I too lie shivering, alone in my flat.
I'm dying too early, all caused by a bat!
Damn! No-one is left to drive my hearse
And no-one remaining to read this verse.


ISIS innit
We're born of blood and soaked in slaughter,
our killings rewarded in life hereafter,
don't care if we make your lives so much shorter,
your infidel heads we'll sever with laughter

I was too long your slave and now I'm your master.
I was born in London, now a master blaster.
Don't fight me with words, you silly time waster,
sing your hymns, say your prayers, your sad paternoster.
With your soppy reliance on words of a pastor.
Your Western ways will die all the faster.

There's only one way, and the quicker the better.
Our belief, not blood, is thicker than water.
Our sun is rising, while your old ways fester.
The Yanks may bomb us, but it's not a disaster.
Your strategy's failed, it doesn't pass muster.
Believe us, today's war is just a taster.

We'll sweep you away, your father and brother,
your mother and sister, your son and your daughter.
You'll all face your end and we'll rule the world
while on your Queen's palace our black flag's unfurled.

Summer burst (Villanelle)
The day when those who ride the train will pay.
His heavy coat made boiling by the sun.
The coat will tell them what he has to say.

His ticket bought, he sets off safely on his way.
The platform full, this trip will not be fun.
The day when those who ride the train will pay.

The train is late. He joins the usual boarding fray.
Nice crowded train, he thinks - a job well done!
The coat will tell them what he has to say.

The rush hour’s gone. Half term, kids’ holiday.
They chatter loud. His sweat begins to run.
The day when those who ride the train will pay.

He counts the stops. Three left. He starts to pray.
One station left, and soon there will be none.
The coat will tell them what he has to say.

The button in his pocket pressed and ends the day.
Jihad succeeds, and yet another battle’s won.
That day, when those who rode the train did pay.
The coat has told them what he has to say.
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