Jacques and his frères are surely weeping

Les pauvres immigrès have caught them sleeping,

Paysans revolt, their emotions churning,

What's that odeur? Is Paris burning?

Within the banlieues there's no joy

Among les jeunes who are sans emplois.

What, take a job? Not the way to go;

We'd rather riot, torch your Peugeot.

Ah, Mother France you took us in,

Then left us with no way to win.

We're not ègal, not garçons blanc,

We've no real chance to earn a franc.

No, what we are, we're useful fools,

For leftist dreams, just brown—skinned tools.

So le Rèpublique's butt is in a crack,

Give your merci to Jacques Chirac.

We'll breed you into minority,

'Til only mullahs hear your plea,

And Shari'a rules throughout your land,

A Frenchman steals, he'll lose his hand.

Your licentious lifestyle, long extolled,

Will leave your women stoned, dead cold.

But everything will turn out fine,

In the Muslim Republic of Paristine.

With a nod to Joseph Farah at World Net Daily

Russ Vaughn is the Poet Laureate of The American Thinker.