Reason Lifts

Altruism hate creates
In small mind of that rotten man
Who gave up what his life began
That altruism hates.

Egoism loving gives,
To high mind of the higher man,
The joy of earning all he can
For love’s desire that lives.

Fear of thinking on his own
Makes man a slave to men who hate.
Reason lifts to realms new known
The self man who creates.

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Sing to Marriage!

Yea! Praise be to the marriage rite,
Sane target of romantic flight,
Which off does soar on love’s pure wings
While round about all nature sings!

What man and woman true have found
In each one shares, in happ’ness bound!
And Nature laughs delightedly
To see love’s sweet identity.

Woman’s woman, a man’s a man;
That is why this world began—
That loves conjoined could be true, whole,
In reason-guided body, soul!

Her beauty is in his glad eye;
His strength in her hard judgment high.
He worships first, desires last;
She bends like breeze before his mast!

They own each other and yet he leads
With gladder, braver, manly deeds;
And trusting sure right by his side,
She walks within his made world’s pride!

So sing to marriage! Matched in one
Are passions woken, spoken, done!
Then praise you full the marriage rite,
Bright target of romantic flight!

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Look Sharp!

Gunned down, murdered, our innocent five;
Gunned down, murdered, and no more to thrive.
Our soldiers who stood to keep all of us free,
Who fought upon land and fought upon sea,
Were killed by a moslem, evil, insane,
Who killed them for nothing, false heaven to gain.
The source of his action, foul seed of foul deed,
Oh fools, it is Islam—we surely must know!—
Which must be destroyed with deadliest blow!
Tehran must be bombed, Medina laid waste,
And Mecca made whole with a hole in its place!
Islamists must feel, as they bow and they kneel,
A blast of deliverance into the real!
Our men must be armed, in uniform, proud,
And never be hiding, as though they were cowed!
Look sharp, true Americans, alert with our right
To put would-be killers in coffins of night!

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Evil Is Islam

Evil is Islam is evil;
True is the truth of the true.
Sick is Mohammed is sick;
Judgment is judging him through.
Moslems are puppets are moslems,
Saneless and wholly insane.
Sick are their spirits are sick,
Stainful and heavy with stain.

Wicked is Islam is wicked,
Kill of the killer that kills;
Death of the living to death,
Hating the loving that wills.
Moslems are things that are moslems,
Things that are things that are things.
Ghosts are their souls are their ghosts,
Sinking through mud with no wings.

Evil is Islam is evil;
True is the truth of the true.

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Why Not?

On every news channel, in every newspaper, in every gathering of politicians and military personnel, there was fear. Fear to say it, despite all the evidence. At one such gathering one man stood up and said, “Islam is…” “No, don’t say it! It’s not true! Islam is one of the world’s great religions! It’s good. It’s got to be!” “Yes,” said another, “it’s just that it’s been taken over by these wild extremists. Islam itself isn’t…” “No, don’t say it! We’ve got to be very careful of how we speak. Some words are very dangerous.” “Yes,” said still another. That is one word which should be banned from the discussion of religions.” “What word are they talking about, mommy?” asked little boy in a back row. “I can’t tell you,” nervously replied his mother. “It’s too dangerous.” “Why? What happens if you say it?” “Nothing. It’s only dangerous if you link it to Islam.” “Why? What happens then?” asked Tommy, inadvertently raising his voice. “Religion dies. You don’t want to kill religion, do you, Tommy?” “Why not? Mommy, is Islam evil?” “Oh, Tommy! Now you’ve done it! Now you’ve opened the door to justice! Now we’re done for!”

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Jihad Against Islam

He was a moslem. He had been raised to obey the will of Allah. He could recite much of the Koran by heart. He had been taught to hate infidels. he was sixteen years old when he knew that Allah wasn’t real and that heaven wasn’t real. He knew they were only his imaginings. He also knew that he didn’t hate anyone, unless it was those who had told him to hate.

He grew up in Brooklyn and loved to watch men working—in the street, on construction—as he walked about by himself in his free time—away from his mother, away from the mosque, away from hatred. And he grew to love the skyline of New York, strong, shining, hopeful—the devil’s work of the infidel, he was told. On 9-11, when he was 21, and he saw the fiery wreckage in the sky that had been the Twin Towers, he decided to change his detested name. It would no longer be Mohammed. He went to court and got it changed to John, John Smith. Then he left home, he disappeared, without telling anyone. Fifteen years later, at the age of 36, after working in a factory all that time in the mid-west, he was ready. (During those 15 years he had studied chemistry and bomb-making in all his spare time and had developed a dynamite stick 100 times more powerful than an ordinary one, plus a remote way of setting it off, giving him time to be somewhere else when it blew.) Now he had saved up enough materials to begin his campaign—his jihad against Islam.

First, it was a mosque in a little town near St. Louis. It was packed full of kneeling, bowing worshippers when it blew up, killing everyone inside. On the lawn in front of the building firefighters found a large white envelope stuck with an Islamic knife in the ground. On the paper inside were printed three words in big red letter: JIHAD AGAINST ISLAM. The firefighters gathered around it and smiled at each other. One of them said, “So be it.”

A week later a mosque near Indianapolis met the same fate. The firemen there didn’t search too vigorously for clues, but instead walked a little straighter after reading the note in the envelope. The media tried to cover up the notes, but the firemen leaked them to several talk radio stations and sent out tweets and videos of them and soon the whole world knew.

Nothing happened for three weeks. But on the Fourth of July 4 mosques in 4 different cities were blown sky high. John Smith had been busy. Moslems were enraged, demanding extra security, making speeches about freedom of religion and playing the parts of pitiful victims, with screaming men and wailing women. The President said that “this wanton disregard for the lives of valuable American citizens will not be tolerated.” Although they did not like the stench of the dead bodies, firemen loved going to these fires and finding the envelope. At one site one old, implacable-faced Marine from the Second World War saluted the note when it was opened and read aloud.

On September 11 of that year a meeting was called for all the top Moslem leaders in America. They were to gather at a huge mosque in Texas. Moslems came from near and far, packing the auditorium. John Smith, dressed in moslem garb, reciting aloud from memory those hated Koranic verses as he walked about, was very busy indeed. Later in the day, with all these higher up moslems leading the worshippers in prayer against the great satan America, there was a series of terrific explosions, the great roof collapsed, the walls fell inward, and all twenty-thousand moslems were no more.

After this, patriotic followers went across America. Hundreds of mosques were blown up, thousands of moslems fried. Then the fierce justice of Jihad-Against-Islam spread to England and Europe. Moslems were on the run. They ran, flew, sailed back to the mid-east, where they fought and killed each other in the dry, lifeless deserts.

John Smith was a happy man. He had saved civilization from the foulest evil in the history of mankind. Then he thought about all the evil people he had killed—the men who treated women worse than cattle, who raped them, or stoned them, when they pleased; the mothers who taught their children to hate; the children,—well, yes, there might have been one or two among them like himself, but, if they had been like him, they would have done what he had done. “Justice Against Islam!” was the best thing he could have done—for them, for civilized, innocent men and women, and for himself. And so he felt no guilt, but only a very manly and a very real American pride.

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His Happy Space

The space cadet has his eyes well set
On the planet called Apollo,
And at space-warp speed he will do his deed
That brave other men may follow.

He strides the sky with a firm goodbye
And has no tears of sorrow,
For in joy he roams to his strange new home,
And his followers come tomorrow.

Just a tiny dot, now a growing spot,
Of a blue-ish green, half golden,
That awaits the best of a spaceman’s quest
With its happy hills to hold him.

Now on down sets he near a tranquil sea,
When around a rock there climbing
Comes a green maid mild like a wond’ring child
And with harp begins her rhyming.

Such a song she sang—his whole being rang!—
Though her words he wasn’t knowing,
And he scrubbed his course from his shining horse
That all following men keep going!

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