Screwed up face, even a mother cant love,

smirks at the red from the neck of a dove.

Your sons and dogs have run amuck!

Soon to be seen passing the buck.

Your hype of Ghadafa shall bear no fruit.

Not your comic robes nor Saif’s Seville suit.

No umbrella can save your frayed thatch.

That the Libyan people now ache to catch.

Your strength in rabid vermin goon?

You’re past the stage of bane or boon.

Pack your Caucasian couture bags!

like the Shah! Now headed for rags.

Your tents and mercenary buxom beau.

Ordained to veer an aching slew.

Your tinkering of the bits and bytes,

hauntingly splash your funeral rites.

Rave and rant that you are great?

Truth soon! And will catch up fate.

The blood you’ve spilt, will lie in wait,

to teach you the meaning of hurt and hate.

You unworthy shadow of Libya’s great.

That! The Arabs and world so lowly rate.

The people that you profess to herd.

For forty years not spoke a word.

Now in their hand a flaming torch.

Loose yourself before its harsh scorch.

Original

Saadat tahir

25022011

Islamabad

*Ghadafa is the Libyan leader's tribe.