Cissie’s Song

I took a train to Sault-Saint Marie.
There was a Mississipi virgin waiting for me.
I had a treasure map, an attitude, a longing, a plea.
I said: Can someone help find the old faith in Me?
You won’t believe it, it’s unfortunate, see
 I adhere to the ghosts of Robert E and Stagger Lee.
And she said, I come from Indianola and my name be Cissie Dupree.

Oh Cissie, Oh Cissie, Oh Cissie Dupree.
I go down there. You know where. And I swear you taste like sassafras tea.

We looked hard to find the Queen Victoria Hotel,
where old ladies in corsets and crinoline dwell.
It's a familiar hell, one where satisfaction dwells.
I was all loosy goose, while Cissie cleaned up all my juice.
Now I see there’s nothing in Upper Michigan but tomfoolery,
flannel-shirted hostility. Ol' tore up pictures of  the Pope and J.F.K.
And a treatise in the paper on the way we die today.

Yea, Cissie, Oh Cissie. Oh Cissie Dupree.
I go down there. You know where. And I swear you taste like sassafras tea.

I said, Cissie, Oh Cissie, I think you lied to me!
You played fast and loose about your virginity.
I just wanted to feel like one of them apostles feels,
when the leaven of mercy gets stranded.
This bottle of whiskey, it cannot save me.
You see my heart is so full with an ache for purity,
but it's  just God’s always joking, and now he’s laughing at me.

Oh Cissie, Oh Cissie, Oh Cissie Dupree.
I don’t care about your hymen. Just get back in bed with me

— Ivor Irwin

Beloved Infidel

I definitely am an infidel.
Own no doubt about it.
My people are the stiff-necked kind and can not be converted.
Before you chop my big head off,
I will trash talk in bad Arabic, grin and wait for payback.

Go on. Bring it on, Bint.
Your scimitar, your sodomy and your suicide vest.
I laugh because you're pathetic.
Bathing in the blood of your enemies, consuming our hearts raw.
A billion lemmings looking toward Mecca.
Cheering for Manchester City.

I look forward to your dirty bomb. The blotting out of the sun.
Americastan: A nation of mutant converts.
Framed pictures of Osama, Farrakhan and Khomeini on the wall.
Anemically keeping our bitches in line.
Veiled. Speaking our Arabic with a midwestern accent.
"Bismallah e-raHman e-raHeem, motherfucker!"

Don't fear the green dawn!
Sharia in Skokie. Palestinian comedians.
The poor, like grains of sand, still poor.
All on the same page, chanting the same Surah.
Don't worry, there'll be a giant selection of prayer rugs at Target.
And the Cubs will finally win the World Series.

Pretending to cooperate, I will eat my humble humus smiling.
Say my jaded phrases with gusto: "Alehu Akbar!" and "Death to the Jews!"
My buddies and me, we'll hoard our supply of bacon and porn,
drink home-made booze, sing freedom songs.
And, hunted by your secret police, we'll die manfully one by one,
Saying, "Yeah! Next year in Jerusalem!"

— Ivor Irwin