Crying Out In the Madding Crowd

Getting your haircut is fun because the clumps of hair dance down my shoulders like little, happy spiders.

Punctuate your conversation with the odd uppercut; liven up your conversation about the weather by really making it rain.

Twirling like a gyro, heading towards my mouth. Pointy like a biro, the hunger way down south. My belly boasts an appetite, that healthy food can’t beat: pitta bread and french fries and various kinds of meat. 

A pear, a pear, a pear for my bear. Neither apple nor banana or godsent heavenhence desert mana. The only fruit my bear will eat that keeps his disposition sweet.

Spooky sailors standing on the docks, staring hungrily at my woollen socks. “Is that wool, boy? Now, don’t lie! Tell the words to heaven and swear to the sky!” Reeling back, I made for to escape, but one of those sailors grabbed me by the nape. Off came my socks and out the forks and knives, for from the wool socks nutrients a sailor’s strength derives. For my trouble, they gave me half a crown, then leapt in the water: I thought that they would drown. Yet sailor folk are a strong and surly breed and float quite nicely once they’ve had their daily feed.

Look at the leaves and the way they wave in the breeze, while the howling sound of the wind echoes around the trees. It makes you feel as if some invisible monster is at play, knocking and socking them hither and thither, in this and in that way.

Look at the leaves and the way they wave in the breeze while the howling sound of the wind echoes around the trees. It makes you feel as if some invisible monster is at play, knocking and socking them hither and thither, in this and in that way.

What happened, Last Knight? Aye, I do not know, for the mead I quaffed went straight to my head.

Bakers and hustlers are the same because they both knead that dough.

I’m going to release an album of music for the High Holidays and call it Shofar, So Good.