So it has come to this.
A mindless voice with mindless tune singing softly in the dark.
My friend, I promise you that on such a night even the sages are locked babbling in their rooms.
You think me mad?
“Well, my boyze.” (I talk in my best W.C. Fields voice).
“Well, my boyze. I had a hen who could lay a Golden Calf.
“And this weird guy – Moses was his name – yass, this Mozaz threw these stone tablets – threw, I say – these stone tablets on my hen, and killed her.
“And I asked him – I said to him – Mozaz, why did you flatten my hen and make the feathers fly?
“And he said to me (can you believe this) – he said to me: `W. C., I was damn hungry.’
“And then I knew,
“My little chickadee,
“My little bottom-soft dumpling,
“I knew from that moment,
“The man was not sincere.”
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