The sons of the prophet are hearty and bold and quiet on a custom to fear, but the bravest of all was a man I am told named Abdul the Boul Amir. When they needed a man to encourage the van or harass a foe from the rear, and stormed for to read out they had only to shout, the named Abdul the Boul Amir. The son of the desert in battle aroused, could split when he met on his spear, a terrible creature, sober or sourced, was Abdul the Boul Amir. Now heroes were plenty and well known to fame who fought in the ranks of the Tsar, but the bravest of these was a man by the name of Ivan Skvinsky Skvar. He could imitate Irving Play poker and pool and strum on the Spanish guitar. In fact, quite the cream of the musk of I.T. was Ivan Skvinsky Skvar. Oh, the ladies all loved him, his rivals were few, he could drink them all under the bar. As Gallon or Tank, there was no one to rank with Ivan Skvinsky Skvar. One day this bull rushing had shouldered his gun, and on his most trucky-lint sneer, downtown he did go where he trought on the toe of Abdul the Boul Amir. Young man said, Boul has your life grown so dull that your anxious to injured career. While in Fidel, know you have trought on the dough of Abdul the Boul Amir. So take your last look at sunshine and brook and senior regrets to the Tsar. By which I imply you are going to die, Mr. Ivan Skvinsky Skvar. Said Ivan, my friend, your remarks in the end will avail you but little life fear. For you, Nair will survive to repeat them. My life, Mr. Abdul the Boul Amir. In that bull mom allude through his trusty iskabook with the cry of Ala Akbar. And with murderous sentient heep a rocious slew went. For Ivan Skvinsky Skvar, well they parried and thrust. They sidesteped and cussed, a blood they spilled a great part. The philologist bloke who seldom cracked jokes say that hash was first made on that spot. They fought all the night, neat the pale yellow moon, the dinner was heard from afar. Huge multitudes came, so great was the fame of Abdul and Ivan Skvvar. As Abdul's long knife was extracting the life, in fact he had shouted, heep helped himself struck by that wily come up. Can Ivan Skvinsky Skvar, the sultan drove by and his red-breasted fly, expecting the victor to cheer, but he only drew, and I just stay here the last sight of Abdul the Boul Amir. His arpeggio which to in his spectacle's blue, rode up in his new crested car. He arrived just in time to exchange a last line with Ivan Skvinsky Skvar. There's a tomb rises up where the blue danube rolls, engraved there in characters clear, our stranger when passing, oh pray for the soul of Ivan Skvinsky Skvar. A musk of I'd made in her long vigil keeps, neat the light of the pale polar star, the name that she murmurs so often she weaves. Is Ivan Skvinsky Skvar?