Once there was a poet
Who hailed from Tipperary
One day he said: “I know what I’ll do
I’ll be the new Busiri!
I am going to be the one and only
I am going to be a star
Muslims from all around will cheer
This is the new burda!
I’ll use a catchy rhythm
I’ll think of amazing rhymes
Similes and metaphors
It’ll be most sublime!
Then after I’ve completed it
I’ll have a special dream
The Prophet will come up to me
With a cloak from the unseen!
I’ll wake and there I’ll find it
Enwrapped around my chest
A miracle, a fine burda
At the holy Prophet’s behest!
Then people will come and read it
They’ll find it heavenly
The royalties will flow and flow
I’ll be an Islamic celebrity!”
So, he went and told his missus
She couldn’t help but deride
“You nincompoop!” She chided him
“Al Busiri was half-paralysed!”
“I don’t care!” Said the poet
“I’m gonna hit the big time
I’ll prove to you that I can write
The most scintillating rhyme!”
So, he went and sat on a wooden bench
Inside the local park
He mused: “right here amongst the trees
I will write with perfect art.”
But as he wrote, he struggled
Nothing was forthcoming
So he decided there to take a nap
Maybe a dream would inspire him.
As he was awakening
He felt something enshrouding him
Inside he said: “subhan Allah!
This must be from Him!”
He awoke with expectation
His ego feeling finer
But to his horror and disgust
He was wrapped in a great bin-liner!
“What on earth is this!” He raged
And suddenly he noticed
A bearded most singular man
He thought: “he must be homeless.”
The old man said: “I’m sorry
But I thought you needed that
I didn’t want you to be cold
Especially in this cold snap.”
“You cheeky sort!” Cried the poet
“Keep yourself to yourself!”
The old man gazed into his eyes
“I know what’s good for your health.”
“What are you blabbering on about
You bumbling, dithering looney!”
Growled the poet growing red and red
Like a bloated strawberry.
The old man said: “you need this burda
This burda around my heart.”
The poet stared at the man and cried:
“There’s no burda there you tart!”
“Aah!” sighed the man, glowing
“You have to look carefully
The cloak that I refer to
Is the cloak of sincerity.
Its thread is made of slavehood
The pattern spells out mercy
Then you have to weave it
With the needles of poverty
When you write and only write
For Blessed Mustafa
When you love and only love
For our One Maker Allah
You will see He works through you
You will see His Mustafa.”
The poet went home gloomy
But at home things weren’t much finer
His wife said: “here, I need some help!”
And she handed him a bin-liner!