This is for Butters.


Bearer of the garments of black and red

Teller of secretive, perverted jokes a selected few get

For he of the copper dyed and spiked hair, never staying in place

Keeper of the Cards, his prized orc with the mace

This is for Butters

Appreciating the simple joy of batteries

Breathing precious life into a Walkman

Beaming with pride at his cafeteria travesties :

Mayro and rye and tuna and peanut butter and kidney beans - but not ham.

Never once were any of the Frankenstein sandwiches touched by ham

This is for Butters

Short for Butterball

Derived in irony of his slim frame

A name inspired from the packaging of turkey

Turkey, the country his father came from

Only as an infant was he ever there

Not that it really matters

Because what matters is

He looks the part

Of the ones who drive staked of fear and hatred

Into the souls of his peers

Who at the dawning of the millennium once gathered 'round him

In fascination of a fancy accent

Never mind that his homeland's a completely different place

From which they assume him to be

Never mind that he's given no hint of treachery

And never mind that he does not play the part

He looks the part

And what's worse, he's proud.

Never once flinching under the undeserving limelight

Of suspicious, hateful, (but more so fearful) eyes

Singing along with Slayer calmly

As a tan messenger bag adorned with buttons metal bands

Along side amateur, green markered blessings in Arabic

And hauled over a jacked shoulder

Closing the locker hate-tagged over

This is for Butters

Who according to the masses, spreads terror wherever he goes

Because his spiked head alights on a cerulean prayer rug

As he humbles body and soul to the Almighty

At five in the morning

While the majority of his peers

Are basking in the luxury of their warm beds

This is for Butters

Who preformed a wrongdoing

Outdoing even his atrocious devotion to religion of terror:

He held no shame in it.

Keeping his heritage in no secret vault

But in the open, on his bag for the world to see

This is for Butters

Who looked square in the eye of his assaulters four

As eyes blazing they met him

Outside the after-hours door

This is for Butters

Who returned, egg yolk drenching his bag

Horrific black halos circling his eyes

Who returned just as calmly as he had gone that morning

And cheerfully greeting his mother

This is for Butters

Because as the saffron yolk and blood dried on his face

His head still held high

This is for Butters

A terrorist by association

The title of towel headed demon

Forever branded upon him


Regardless of all evidence saying otherwise

Regardless of who he truly is

Because it is only where he is from that matters

So this is for Butters

Humbly kneeled upon the rug, devoid of any major sin

For Butters, the filthy Arab who voted Republican

And this is for Butters

Whose closest friend

Plummeted to the asphalt

When those two towers did.