Deep, deep, deep down, under the throne
Of Omar Khayyam, an Ishmaeili lived.
Despite the promises of bread and wine,
Despite the allure of Rumi, top man,
Fitzgerald lived.
Dear son of the Romans and the Normans,
The Ishmaeli cursed the Wahabi tendency
To frack, frack, and frack again – to transform
The Norman beauty into the Roman thing.
Dear Omar Fitzgerald said that up from the gate,
On the throne of Saturn sate, a neoplatonist
Called Plotinus, a man more familiar with a gate than agate.
Dear Lapis Lazuli, a gem accustomed to an Arabian twist,
Struck a deal with death, in a kind of a Patagonian tryst.
Gerald the bastard, in a kind of Ulster way,
Said let us tilt the lances in a Khayyam lay.
Ishmail said: “Let us not squabble in a Wahabi way.
FitzGerald will be the precursor of a Norman day.”
And so, in Syracuse, most things did came to pass.
And Rufus and the Normans just,
Well, took it up the ass!
