I munch; you crunch:
You bland, fragile comestible.
(And one, I might add,
That is semi-digestible.)
Could our forefathers,
Rushed and stressed to a man,
Not have baked up some pitas?
Or maybe some naan?
Couldn't Moses have said to Hashem:
"Nice to see ya,
But instead of that matzah
How's about a tortilla?"
But matzah it was that the Israelites ate,
And matzah it is that's our fortune, our fate.
Our own personal flatness,
An object with squareness,
And there's no point in griping about the unfairness
Of being saddled with something that's not as delicious
For, when slathered with butter
Or cream cheese that's spreadable,
Even matzah can be something readily edible.
Better yet: fry it up, after dipping in egg.
Like French toast--only better.
(I'm not pulling your leg.)
And when it seems you can't take one more bite
Know this, friend:
Pesach, like all good things,
Does eventu'lly end.
Post a Comment