the Gaza Flotilla participants explain how they can con the world
full text:
There comes a time
When we need to make a show
For the world, the Web and CNN
There’s no people dying,
so the best that we can do
Is create the greatest bluff of all
We must go on pretending day by day
That in Gaza, there’s crisis, hunger and plague
Coz the billion bucks in aid won’t buy their basic needs
Like some cheese and missiles for the kids
We’ll make the world
Abandon reason
We’ll make them all believe that the Hamas
Is Momma Theresa
We are peaceful travelers
With guns and our own knives
The truth will never find its way to your TV
Ooooh, we’ll stab them at heart
They are soldiers, no one cares
We are small, and we took some pictures with doves
As Allah showed us, for facts there’s no demand
So we will always gain the upper hand
We’ll make the world
Abandon reason
We’ll make them all believe that the Hamas
Is Momma Theresa
We are peaceful travelers
we’re waving our own knives
The truth will never find its way to your TV
If Islam and terror brighten up your mood
But you worry that it may not look so good
Well well well well don’t you realize
You just gotta call yourself
An activist for peace and human aid
We’ll make the world
Abandon reason
We’ll make them all believe that the Hamas
Is Momma Theresa
We are peaceful travelers
We’re waving our own knives
The truth will never find its way to your TV
We con the world
We con the people
We’ll make them all believe the IDF is Jack the Ripper
We are peaceful travelers
We’re waving our own knives
The truth will never find its way to your TV
We con the world (Bruce: we con the world…)
We con the people (Bruce: we con the people…)
We’ll make them all believe the IDF is Jack the Ripper
We are peaceful travelers
We’re waving our own knives
The truth will never find its way to your TV
The truth will never find its way to your TV
Two Middle Eastern mothers are sitting in a cafe chatting over a plate of tabouli and a pint of goat’s milk.
The older of the mothers pulls a bag out of her purse and starts flipping through photos and they start reminiscing.
‘This is my oldest son Mohammed. He would be 24 years old now.’
‘Yes, I remember him as a baby’ says the other mother cheerfully.
‘He’s a martyr now though’ mum confides. ‘Oh, so sad dear’ says the other.
And this is my second son Kalid. He would be 21′
‘Oh, I remember him,’ says the other happily, ‘he had such curly hair when he was born’.
‘He’s a martyr too’ says mum quietly.
‘Oh, gracious me …’ Says the other.
‘And this is my third son. My baby. My beautiful Ahmed. He would be 18, she whispers.
‘Yes’ says the friend enthusiastically, ‘I remember when he first started school’
‘He’s a martyr also,’ says mum, with tears in her eyes.
After a pause and a deep sigh, the second Muslim mother looks wistfully at the photographs and says…
‘They blow up so fast, don’t they?’
