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Archive for the ‘Poems – Humorous’ Category

POEM: Rabbi Lacey

RABBI LACEY

©2013 David Lefkowitz

The sun was bright and brilliant on that Rosh Hashanah day
And all the Jews in Hicksville came to synagogue to pray
They sat upon the benches with their machzors in their laps
The women talked, the children laughed, the babies took their naps

They wished each other health and joy and better months ahead
They talked of recent surgeries and who they knew was dead
But then, a hush did fill the room and quelled the cheery banter
For stepping to the bimah came the Rabbi and the cantor

“Good Yontif!”, said the man of cloth, “We’re glad that you are here
To celebrate this day that marks a brand-new Jewish year.
We hope that God will listen as we send our prayers to heaven.
Now open up your prayer books; we’re on page one-thirty-seven.”

The cantor started chanting, and the Rabbi set the pace
Their chemistry was awesome, and it showed on every face.
For everyone agreed it was the best they’d done so far
The crowd could hardly wait until the time of the shofar

They knew that Rabbi Lacey was a master of the horn
Oh, how he’d fill the air with stellar trumpeting that morn!
In all the tri-state area nobody could compete
With Rabbi Lacey’s thrilling tone, the magic of his bleat

And Jews from other synagogues would come from miles around
To hear the Rabbi blow his horn and make a holy sound.
He wowed them in Passaic, and he rocked in Oyster Bay
It only stood to reason he’d make history that day

And so the service moved ahead, and not a soul was tired
The Torah portion wasn’t long; the sermon was inspired
The Cantor sang a lovely hymn with trills and ululations
The Treasurer stepped up and made his usual fifteen-minute pitch for donations

But then the Mourner’s Kaddish came, and everybody knew
They’d hear Reb Lacey give that horn the best he ever blew
He marched across the carpet, and he gave the crowd a nod
He took the shofar in his hands and waved the tip to God

The time had come for him to blow the first of three big toots
He took a mighty breath that shook his molars to their roots
And then with exhalation grand, he blew a mighty gust
But nothing came from that shofar besides a puff of dust

A gasp went up among the crowd, “He’s faking!” someone said.
Then once again, the Rabbi held the ram’s horn to his head.
The Cantor said, “Be careful!” but the Rebbe waved him off
He wet his lips and swerved his hips and gave a little cough

He leaned against a pillar, and he clenched his belly tight
He popped a vessel in his eye and blew with all his might
But not a sound was heard except a sickly little squeak
And all at once the congregants were too aghast to speak

The Rabbi staggered forward with a wild look in his eye
“I’ll blow that goddamn shofar, or so help me God, I’ll die!”
He clutched that ram’s horn in his hands like Casey at the Bat
He tightened up his abdomen and pushed his belly flat.

His body shook so strongly that it rattled every shelf
“Don’t do it, Moish!” the Cantor cried, “You’re gonna poop yourself!”
“Too late,” the Rabbi whispered back, “though it may mean my death.
I’m blowing!” screamed Reb Lacey as he took one massive breath . . .

Oh somewhere in America the air is bright and clear
Where people order coffee and get bagels with a shmear
And when it comes to shofars, well, most Rabbis, they just do it.
But there is no sound from Hicksville; Rabbi Lacey, oy, he blew it.

 

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NOTES & BACKSTORY:

I don’t recall whether this parody of Ernest Thayer’s Casey at the Bat was written to be performed by Rabbi Sol Solomon on my radio show, Dave’s Gone By, or as part of a sequel (of sorts) to Rabbi Sol’s stage show, Shalom Dammit!. I just know I love it every time I read it (the eye vessel line gets me every time) and hope it gets to be performed somewhere soon.

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JO ANNE WORLEY, BEA ARTHUR AND ME

©1991 David Lefkowitz

 I had a dream of sexual bliss
Love never made me feel like this
I was staring at the kitchen floor
When I heard a knock at the unlocked door.

“It’s open!” I shouted.
“Come in, please.”
And there stood Bea Arthur
In a purple chemise.

“May I use your phone?” the golden girl purred.
“No problem,” I said, but I don’t think she heard.
When the phone call was finished,
She yanked the receiver
Then lay on the sofa and showed me her beaver.

“Miss Arthur!” I gasped, “but you’re so famous!”
“Shut up!” she replied. “And finger my anus.”
Just then, the window flew up with a crash,
And into my room stepped another hot gash.
Her skin so pale, her hair so curly,
There she was, in the flesh, “Laugh-In’s” Jo Anne Worley.

Oh, what perfect ecstasy.
Jo Anne Worley, Bea Arthur and me.

Jo Anne stripped off her yellow thong
And snapped a rubber on my dong
And sprang up and said, “Get ready!
I learned this from Estelle Getty.”

She jammed her head between my thighs
Until I grew to massive size.
Jo Anne Worley took her place
With both cheeks resting on my face.

We really put on quite a show
Jo Anne Worley, Bea Arthur y yo.

No woman on earth, from Capetown to Cairo
Could match the snap of Jo Anne’s gyro.
We filled the bathroom with spice and champagne
While Bea Arthur climaxed again and again.
Jo Anne Worley screamed as she tore her brassiere
I only wish Ruth Buzzi were here!

I humped and I pumped till the ladies were sore
But Bea and Jo Anne just cried out for more.
Bea made me grovel and squeal like a pig
Jo Anne bit my neck, so I came in her wig.

We tried French ticklers, we tried Ben-Wa
Jo Anne Worley, Bea Arthur et moi.

Finally, our tryst came to a close
They packed in their boobs,
I tucked in my hose
We rolled up the carpet
`cause it was all sticky
Then Bea and Jo Anne both gave me a hickey.

Bea put the telephone back on the hook
And ran out the door with nary a look
“Hot damn!’ said Jo Anne. “My box is still tight.”
And quick as a flash, she vanished from sight.

I smiled, lay back and tried to recall
The highlights of this spectacular ball
When suddenly, my thighs were covered with cream
And that’s how I awoke from my dream.
Forever, I’ll cherish my fantasy
Jo Anne Worley, Bea Arthur and me.

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NOTES & BACKSTORY:

Every once in awhile, I try to write something so vile, so unspeakably disgusting—just to see if I can (or see if I can top myself in excruciation). Examples of this include such gleefully rancid tunes as, “The Most Offensive Song Ever Written” and “My Doggy’s Christmas Gift.” Admittedly, now being in a post-Farrelly, post-MacFarlane, post-Schumer world (as opposed to being in merely a post-Bruce, post-Python one), shocking people with comedy is almost a hopeless proposition. And yet, like Sisyphus, I push on…

 

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