Islam Is The Foulest Evil

From every hill and mountain,
Across the oceans wide,
Through forest, vale and canyon,
Aloud on every side,
Through cities, towns and nations,
through towers, houses, car,
And all across the airways,
And up into the stars,
One sentence clear is sounding,
One voice speaks clean and free:
“Islam is the foulest evil
That you will ever see!”

“Islam is evil! Islam is evil!”
Rolls round the world and round.
Through every railway station,
Through every bank and store,
Through every auditorium,
Loudspeakers tell the score:
That Islam, it is evil,
Is evil to its heart,
And such a rot as it is
Must from the world depart.

“Islam is evil!” “Islam is evil!”
Rolls town to town to town,
And those who do not know it
Are considered upside down.
“Islam is evil!” “Islam is evil!”—
The truth is everywhere!
The butcher tells the baker,
And he, his customers,
And they tell friends and family,
Who write to stations on TV,
“Islam is evil! Islam is evil!
Now speak the truth for you and me!”
Leaders of cities, countries, states,
Conclude them, after brief debates,
“Islam is evil! Islam is evil!
Let’s wipe it out with wiping great!”

The mosques are noted, every one,
And up the bombers fly.
From morning till the setting sun
The bombs do kiss “Goodbye.”
A hundred thousand, maybe more,
All vanish into dust
With all the evil they’d in store,
And all their evil lust.

Boom! Boom! Boom and boom!
For Islam’s evil, all its sins—
Its sins against man’s happy life,
Its sins against man’s mind,
Its sins against all innocence,
Against men good and kind,
Its sins against all women, yes,
Against all children, too.
Boom! Boom! Boom and boom!
Foul Islam, you are through!
Islam is evil! Islam is evil!
Islam is evil! Islam is evil!

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Love’s Day

A breath of air, and then a sigh,
White blossoms falling down from high.
So lazily about they sway,
So silently around they play,
And downward falling, falling slow,
Some touching petals precious oh,
And so on lips they land so sweet
On arms and hands and naked feet,
On chest and shoulders, shirtless, free,
On top of head for all to see—
And still, Apollo’s forehead shines,
And both his eyes are Valentines
For thinking, living men who sing
That love-of-life is everything!

Across the way Athena stands,
All naked, but for snow-filled hands,
As if the winter she does give
To men made strong through storms to live.
And who will love her beauty rare,
And who will kiss her fingers fair?
And who will fill his soul with pride
In tasting snow that she’s supplied?
Who’ll kiss cold lips and colder breast
In praise of Beauty at her best?
One lone old man, with long beard, gray,
Has ventured out on this Love’s Day.
Apollo gets his smile of bliss;
Athena’s fingers feel his kiss.
And that is all that I will tell;
The rest you can imagine well.

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In Sunny Abarbanell

In Sunny Abarbanell doth dwell
A spirit bright and bonny.
Now sing we hey, and sing we ho,
And sing, hey nonny nonny!

A clever mind, a mind so kind,
A gift it is to hear her.
Should we mistake her we were blind,
And make up here to cheer her.

Abarbanell is money—more!
She’s not a cloud, but Sunny—sure!
And we thank her for being friend,
Which is a gift that has no end!

In Sunny Abarbanell doth dwell
A spirit bright and bonny.
Now sing we hey, and sing we ho,
And sing, hey nonny nonny!

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A Gift?

Who gives the singer the gift of song?
The singer herself, by working long,
Long and longer, hour after hour,
Developing outward her inner flower.
The gift of singing is no such thing,
But a lift and plying of self-made wing
All ready to soar when ripe’s the time
To pour out notes of life, sublime.
Then someone hears, says, “Oh, what a gift”
Who never dared himself to lift.
Yet we who work and slave for song,
It’s we create our gift so strong;
A gift of self, rewarding hours
Spent cultivating our inner flowers.
So artists all, of every kind,
Work hard and long in body, mind,
And face Defeat, and take him on,
And turn and twist him into Dawn,
Creating something true, serene,
That is pure beauty, heard or seen.
A gift, if such a gift there is,
Is artist’s art that he’s made his.

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My Own Ayn Rand

You walked the gleaming hall
Completely comfortable
And saw not gazes
Of wondering faces,
Who with awed sight
Did love your light,
For one voice clear
Then held your ear
Who was your dear
Own husband, Frank.

I, too, did see
And feel the force
Of your calm course.
So sure and free
And light you came—
My first intense
Of living flame—
I could but stand,
Speechless, shy,
While you passed by—
My own Ayn Rand.

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Right Side Up

Religion is man’s enemy.

Religion is immoral.

Religion is the worship of wishes.

Religion is the devil, the one who plots against man, trying always to dethrone man’s reason.

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Your arms surround my body
In a melody of joy;
Your lips, impressing harmony,
Their counterpoint employ.
The rhythm of your heartbeats
I feel within my chest,
As eye to eye we’re seeing
The beauty of our best.

For love like ours is never
Mere exercise of thrills,
But shrine of ‘Mine’ forever
That magnifies our wills.
Our love is more important than
All wars and governments,
For we’re the height of seeking man
And love’s peak innocence.

My arms surround your body,
My hands are in your hair;
We move in passion’s rhapsody,
Desiring all that’s there—
Of what we are and who we are
And why we live to be
The climax of that distant star
That’s caught in you and me!

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