It’s because he’s a wog
That he works like a dog,
And although in his speech he sounds daft,
He is devilish clever,
Believe me, you’ll never
Find one who can match him for graft.
With his cousin Patel
He’ll invest for a spell
In a little shop down the high street,
Selling watered down milk,
Sweet potato and silk,
Onion bharji and secondhand meat.
In his shop you’ll have spent
About fifty percent
More than Finefare or Safeway will charge,
So although he’s not big
He grows fat as a pig
On his profits, which always are large.
And he won’t be waylaid
By the terms of the trade,
He rebuts Sunday closing by saying:
You can tell by my garb
I’m a Moslem, Memsaab,
And my shop’s open long as you’re paying.
He goes nightly to mosque
In a little kiosk
Where he offers his prayers up to Allah,
And he freely imbibes
While the imam takes bribes
To make light of his ungodly manner,
But if with a question
You raise the suggestion
He charges the Christians a bomb,
He’ll just grin like a Jew
As he shortchanges you
And sardonically utter: Shalom!
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