Sweetie, you want to love everybody else?

Go over there and move in with them, then.

They don't believe in God!

No money, no manners, pregnant every weekend,

Line up for abortions Monday morning

Instead of going to their jobs!

(If I had my way, they wouldn't need abortions.)

Give them a chance, they'll nibble away at us

Like roaches eating Christmas tree ornaments.

Thus ends a poem by Mr. X---just some of his

Prescient boot-heeled rhyming,

Repeated now ad nauseam---

Taste a little blood, see how you like it.

X knows that bullies get their wings

By beating up smaller things;

But what astounds him greatly---

the speed they'll rise to the bait:

IT IS A WAR---more than any time before,

Between us Americans and them Islamists. 

AND THEY WANT TO KILL US.  JESUS!

So change that antique rule and kill them first;

Then they'll know our values and religion. 

In retching up those last few lines,

The Poet seems almost sickened;

But you've not heard the last time,

From Mr. X, the artless Christian.