Sultans Who Swing

There's duck liver and there's pork
They should disdain and abhor, but meantime—
When they're out of the limelight, they'll do anything
Sand's blowing, these Saud sheiks' chicks have no chador*. I'm
Guessin' they're divested of 'bout everything.

Inside the palace, some birds sitting on their faces.
On the outside, they bray to help keep the masses down.
Their kingdom is home to the two most holy places,
So they look forlorn, solemn, wear a frown.
Way on down south, way on down south Riyadh town.

Check out mullah's gorge—he's got stretched vocal cords.
He's had 'em in 'im and this imam can swallow near anything.
He likes boys, girls, and goats—a smorgasbord
He's got a golden scepter and other bling bling.

His houri* doesn't mind if his hand's inside her jeans.
In the day he whips faithful up 'bout their plight.
He can make a donkey honk like anything.
Then he gets lashed on Friday night.
They are the sultans, the sultans who swing.

A crowd of young boys is being drooled over in the corner.
The sultans are gonna undress 'em and attack their holes.
As much as dams, they like to hump these "little mans". . .
Get ready to oil up their poles;
Some sultans gawk through keyholes.

But Prince Bandar has only got a microbone
And needs pneumatic help to swell that thing.
Night's getting started—prince is at the throne,
And he's paying homage to the king.
They are the sultans; they are the sultans who swing.