Purim picture of the day.
Posted by Yochanan Lavie on 28.02.10 at 4:18 pm
‘Twas the night before Purim, when all through the shul
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mule;
The stockings were hung by the aron with care,
In hopes that St. Mordecai soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their pews,
While visions of humantashen danced in their shoes;
And mammaleh in her ‘kerchief, and I in my kipah,
Had just settled down for a late winter’s sleepa,
When out in the shul there arose such a clatter,
I looked from the megillah to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of chatzot to objects below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should show,
But a miniature grogger telling Haman to go,
With a little old maidel, so lively and festive,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Esther.
More rapid than eagles the groggers they rattled,
And they whistled, and shouted, as Haman they battled:
“Parshandatha, and Dalphon, and Aspatha, and Poratha, and Adalia, and Aridatha,
Parmashta, and Arisai, and Aridai, and Vaizatha,”
To the top of the gallows! to the top of the tree!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away thee!”
As slush that before the morning sun plops,
As the temperature rises, like a tchinek is hocked,
So down to the bottom of the halters they dropped,
With the sleigh full of shalach manot, and St. Mordecai too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard in the shul
The dancing and applauding of each happy Jew.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Mordecai came with a bound.
He was dressed all in purple, from his head to his tuchus,
And his clothes were all garnished with kasha and varniskes;
A bundle of shalach manot he had flung on his back,
Like a Lower East Side peddler just opening his pack.
His eyes — how they twinkled! his dimples how freilich!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a dreidel! [wrong holiday!]
His droll little payot were drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;
The stump of a pipe he held tight like a villain,
And the smoke it encircled his head like tefillin;
He had a broad face and a little round pupik,
That shook, when he laughed like a tray full of cupcakes.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old Yid,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of my Id;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his keppie,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to worry;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his avodah,
And gave us shalach manot; then drank Mountain Dew soda,
And laying his finger aside of his payot,
And doing a schuckle, the chimney he went up;
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a yashar koach,
And away they all flew like a Chabad shiliach
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of the way,
“Happy Purim to all, and to all an oy vey.”
Posted by: Yochanan Lavie | February 28, 2010 at 10:58 AM