The Asian Grocer

Itís because heís a wog
That he works like a dog,
And although in his speech he sounds daft,
He is devilish clever,
Believe me, youíll never
Find one who can match him for graft.

With his cousin Patel
Heíll invest for a spell
In a little shop down the high street,
Selling watered down milk,
Sweet potato and silk,
Onion bharji and second hand meat.

In his shop youíll have spent
About fifty percent
More than Finefare or Safeway will charge,
So although heís not big
He grows fat as a pig
On his profits, which always are large.

And he wonít be waylaid
By the terms of the trade,
He rebuts Sunday closing by saying:
You can tell by my garb
Iím a Moslem, memsíhab,
And my shopís open long as youíre 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,
Heíll just grin like a Jew
As he shortchanges you
And sardonically utter: Shalom!

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