I wake up in Damascus
To some noise out in the town
I open up the window
“Can’t you people hold it down?”

I spot a soldier standing
And I clear my throat, "Ahem!"
He sees me up above him
And he shouts, “You're one of them!"

I start to close the window
But he's Johnny-on-the-spot
He tells me I’m a pris’ner
Of the al-Mukhabarat.

He takes me to his Sergeant
In a room without a view.
Who says that he has proof that
I'm an agent of the Jews.

He shows me grainy photos
Of a club at Thomas Gate
“That bar’s a Mossad hangout
You were there. It’s check and mate.”

I sign a typed confession
And I thought that we were through.
But no, he tells the soldier,
“Take him up to the HQ."

The Captain at Headquarters
He’s a thug, his name’s Farooq
He takes one look and mutters
“Hell, that ain’t no Jewboy spook."

He tears up the confession
And he kicks me in the balls.
He says, “You’re in al-Qaeda
Give it up and tell me all.”

I rattle off this story
How I trained in Pakistan.
And taught Mohammed Atta
How to sneak through airport scans.

They type a new confession.
As I sign my autograph.
Farooq decides to send me
To the Army Chief of Staff.

They toss me in a dungeon
In a place both dark and dank
They leave me there for six days
The food they gave me stank

The seventh day this colonel
He's one of Bashar’s friends
He drives up to the prison
In a pink Mercedes Benz.

He glares at all around him
He huffs and puffs and roars
His helpers cringe and tremble
As he calls for blood and gore.

He looks at me and hollers
“You’re a liar! You’re a fake!
You never were al-Qaeda.
Didja think you’d get a break?”

He tears up the confession
And he stomps and kicks a chair
“You’re CIA, I know it.
It’s a fact as clear as air.”

I sign a new confession.
As we watch the drying ink,
They post my face on YouTube
They throw me in the clink.

They tell the world they got ‘im
Both the plotter and the plot
They have it down on paper
How this "terrorist" was caught

Each Friday before Moslem prayer
They trot me out to say,
“I’m an agent of al-Qaeda
Of the Jews and CIA.”

So that is all my story.
Each word I swear is true
I’m stuck inside Damascus
Guess it’s better me than you

But if you ever go there
And you’re feeling in a rut
Don’t go looking for trouble, Dude,
Just keep the window shut.

And stay out of the daylight
Just sit there like a monk
Go pour yourself a strong one

Hell, you might as well get drunk.
'Cause it's crazy in this city.
It's a parallel universe

All the cops are cutthroats.
It only can get worse.
The al-Assads are werewolves
Maher's a bombardier.

Asma's locked in a tower.
She stares into a mirror. 

The Parliament's a dumb show.
The Prime Minister's a chump.

The Grand Mufti's a hunchback.
The Mosque's an ammo dump
So what's that sound we're hearing?
Is it a wounded tiger's roar,

Or the cry of a despot dying?
Let him die like a dinosaur.
But hang on tight to that ticket
It's the last train to the coast.

You do not want to be stuck here
And end up being toast.

Download a copy of the poem here...


lanziland said...

hey , great song

playwrighter said...

Thanks, lanzi. I do appreciate the kind words.

Anonymous said...

your rhyming's so bad
your story isn't true
you made me so sad
heard no memphis blue
you aint no mossaad
and the cia won't have you
your writing's so bad
alzawahiri'd shun you
but i was actually glad
you are so..well; you
I would've been mad
if you had a clue
i'm rajai hakki's dad
and you're cariboo-lou

playwrighter said...

Thanks, Anon. You suck, but that's okay. You can't help it. Please say hi to Rajai and let's hope he gets a lot of cock when he grows up....

Anonymous said...

"Suck" and "cock" wow, that's mature.
My son Rajai, who you insulted, is a retired U.S. Marine (first Marine battalion) who served three tours in Iraq, and has a combat ribbon from Fallujah. He is also a Syrian patriot who was recently in Damascus. I would be surprised if you didn't run into him-if you really are in Damascus-because he's bigger than life and lived in Bab Touma. I would like to see you insult him like that face to face. The reason I responded to your silly ditty with such sarcasm is simple. If you are a writer as you claim to be and an American who lives in Syria, you would never use such sophomoric rhymes: Bashar and Masarati car, Give me a break! You don't need to post this comment or respond, but I would bet anything that you are the opposite of the fake lesbian; a heterosexual Syrian pretending to be an "American writer living in Damascus". My Dad introduced Syria to the English Language. He almost single handedly taught the first generation of Syrian English teachers how to teach English; ask you grand father...he will know him. His name is also Rajai Hakki. (Haqqui) It's OK to rile against the corrupt regime in Syria. But let's be civilized and not use profanity towards each other. The issues are too complex for us to fight, we have bigger fish to fry.
e-mail me directly at

playwrighter said...

Civilized? Is this about the hooker with dysentery? I swear, she never mentioned money until I came.

matts said...

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playwrighter said...

Thanks, matts. So glad my poetic efforts have elevated you to post a comment. Say hi to Bob Dylan when you run into him...

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