O those minions—rains black,
O cherished base on a bedeviled
assembly of shredded, rubber
in imbalanced anger, soaked
by Zeyde’s unfettered white spit.
I hear the charismatic,
old man’s wives were all shiksa;
His tahtee, just another
gunif–nit. My eemah: the vain-
glorious quiffe, found Abah
stoked on with that whiff; Believers?
Goyishe trash and yiddishe rash;
Statists; Ethno’s; Machers
Their ear stoned deaf to a grandson’s
cry. To leave Egypt and wind-up
as wanderers with this guy?
Yes, I’ll greet you when; Yes,
an apostasy foments in the stems.