It was Friday afternoon in a little Yorkshire town and the men scurried like little brown beetles to their prayers. Pyjama dresses, half mast trousers, skinny ankles and huge feet in cheap trainers. Absurd and comical and deadly serious. Little boys with little hats dragged along to be initiated into this manly, manmade, men only concoction of fantasy, self flagellation and hypocritically moral piety.
Nothing else matters right now but this call to prayer.
“It’s half past three and it’s time for tea” sang a sweet little voice.
“It’s half past three and it’s time for tea, it’s half past three and it’s time for tea”.
And before any of the women could stop her little Maryam had indeed poured boiling hot tea over her father’s place of worship.
The men screamed as they scalded and steamed, As their flesh started to peel. As allah himself failed to save them.
Up in Lextalionis the women laughed and laughed and laughed some more.