Mohammedan poetry

A high school principal  in Massachusetts got into hot water last Wednesday, 9/11, because a Mohammedan poem was recited over the intercom, and the Pledge of Allegiance was not.

Okay, we’ve come to expect multicultural nonsense in the U.S. school system, which is anti-American to a dreadful degree, and we are especially accustomed to the adulation of the Mohammedan world that, in large part, wants to kill our men and stone our women who are, after all, unclean.

That a Mohammedan poem would be read on that tragic date and the Pledge “overlooked” should not surprise you.

Arab feetWhat is surprising is the poem in question. As Dave Barry famously says, I am not making this up.

Was the spotlighted poet a Mohammedan version of Langston Hughes or Pablo Neruda or Robert Frost? Hardly.

It was a poet named Mohja Kahf, and the work is titled: My Grandmother Washes her Feet in the Sink at the Bathroom at Sears.

A short news story of the school’s affront can be found at And if you wish to read the entire poem, it can be found here.

Before you dub me a dunderhead, know that I strongly favor education about other cultures, and our own culture too. Let us teach young people about the oppressive nature of Mohammedan culture.

And the proud, productive past of our own.

Currently, we do precisely the contrary.

Reciting a poem about washing Mohammedan feet in the bathroom of Sears on 9/11 while simultaneously skipping the Pledge of Allegiance is shameful.

Teacher union labor leading youth into the future.

Hello, feet!

For most of my life, living in warm, sultry climes from New Orleans to San Juan and other hot spots in between, I was well acquainted with my feet because I was often sans socks, and I wore sandals.

Then I moved 7,200 feet into the sky, and it’s quite cool up here. I wear socks all the time. The only moments during which my feet and I renew our acquaintance are the few seconds after the shower and before I don clean socks.

It is during that brief time that I tend to foot hygiene. FYI.

sockI sleep in socks. I am always in socks. I couldn’t pick my feet out of a lineup no matter how much you paid me. We have drifted apart, gone our separate ways. We have different interests.

They might even have voted for Obama, the rascals.

But something odd has happened recently. We are in the waning days of the dry, “hot” season. I put hot in quotes because anyone in New Orleans would scoff at what we deem hot here atop the mountain.

In the late afternoon and early evening, my feet cry to be free. So I doff my socks for a few hours, and there they are. Friends from distant days, my feet.

But I know this re-acquaintance will be short-lived. We’ve been getting showers recently, not the full-blown, cooling dailies of the rainy season, but it won’t be long till my feet must be sent back into sock exile.

I will miss them.

* * * *

(Note: Yes, the photo is a sock. I spared you a shot of feet, which are almost always unsightly, except occasionally on a woman.)