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W.C Fields, Moses, And A Chicken (Check Your Bible If You Must)

My day (perhaps the week – and I do realize it is only Tuesday) has made me think of this, so I will re-post for the delectation of others who are having ‘my’ day.

  My little Chick-a-dee

    So it has come to this.

    A mindless voice with mindless tune

    Singing softly in the dark.

    My friend, I promise 

    On such a night

    Even the sages are locked

    Babbling in their rooms.

    On such a night

     The pineapple juice

     Turns into

     Pineapple juice.

    You think me mad?

     Well, my boyze. 

     I had a hen who

     Could lay a Golden Calf.

    And this weird guy

   – Mozaz was his name –

     Yass, this Mozaz     

     Threw these stone tablets

    – Threw, I say –

      These stone tablets on my hen,

      And killed her.

      Feathers everywhere.

      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 chick-a- dee,

     My little bottom-soft dumpling,

     I knew from that moment

     The man was not sincere. 

It Always Ends In Kafka

Statue of Franz Kafka

A short story:

The old Rabbi moved slightly on his bed, and the young man raced over.

     “Yes, Rebbe?”

     The old Rabbi opened his eyes, showing the cast of death which had almost consumed him. “Ka … ” he groaned.

    The young man had been told the dying Rabbi would never regain his senses, and he did not know what to do. He was scared, almost horrified, but he leaned closer.

     “What is it? What do you want?”

     The old Rabbi struggled for breath. “Ka … Kaf …”

     The young man gazed at the face, saw its pallid features and the clouded eyes. He touched a shrunken cheek, raised his voice to a shout. “What is it? What can I do?” He could hear wheezing, the struggle for air. He put his ear directly over the gaping mouth.

    “Ka … Ka …” One last ragged breath, a low hollow whisper. “Kafka died for your sins.”

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