Bombing Las Vegas with a truck? Muhammad Jihad can’t get it done.
He has no balls in the sack they go in. They were stolen.
At the moment of truth, he’ll shiver and punt.
If losing was winning he, a busted flush, would tip the dealer.
But he’s broke. When the time comes there won’t be a bomb. This bum can’t
deliver.
He’s an expired joke. God’s hates the way he’s wired.
The creep’s in lip-deep. His mouth is zinc. He’s had no plan since Afghanistan.
Everything he knows about terrorism he read off a label peeled off a beer can.
He’s a boy. His cell leader Abu Zil is a man.
He’s woe begotten. The moon said he tastes rotten. She puked when she ate his
suntan.
Toss him in a jail cell. Call the old man.
Get him canceled and banned.
No arrows in his quiver, just sand.
He’s dying of desert dream-fever.
He wants to believe in his girlfriend Sarah but he hates her worse than Jews hate
Hitler.
Too bad for Chloe, his little sister.
Muhammad Jihad’s dying in an explosion or getting whacked by his handler.
He ain’t donating her a piece of his liver No matter how bad she need it.
Drop him a leaf and a horse to ride. Nah, forget it
I’m his dawg but come on. The Pal’s a quitter.
Here’s a dollar. Drown his ass in the Colorado river.
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