Mohammlet’s Soliloquy

To behead, or not to behead—that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous Infidels
Or to take arms against a sea of Christians
And by opposing end them. To die, to explode—
No more—and by an explosion to say we end
The humiliation, and the thousand impure shocks
That flesh is heir to. ’Tis a Shahada
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to explode—
To explode—perchance to Paradise: ay, there’s no rub,
For in that love of death what Paradise may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Cannot give us pause. There’s disrespect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of Fitna,
Th’Occupier’s wrong, the proud Jew’s contumely
The pangs of despised honor, Sharia’s delay,
The insolence of Saudis, and the spurns
That patient merit of th’unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a full rucksack? Who would Infidels bear,
To stand in line before an X-rayed flight,
But that the joy of virgins after death,
The undiscovered Caliphate, from whose bourn
No martyr returns, inflames the will,
And makes us insensate of those ills we have
To fly to buildings that we know not of.