Sabbatai Zvi III

O those minions—rains black,
O cherished base on a bedeviled

steeple-chase,
his minions—

assembly of shredded, rubber
pinions. Harness-back-open-fire

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

and Chazerai.

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.