‘Twas the night before Pesach in each Jewish home,
When Chometz is searched for with a fine tooth-comb.
Mrs. Samuel Goldberg was lying in bed,
While visions of pots and pans danced in her head.
“New dishes, new silver” she gasps and she groans.
I’d sooner squeeze water from one hundred stones.”
And nightmares abound, for she pictures her foe
As ‘Soldiers of Chometz’ who constantly grow.
They appear in all shapes and in various sizes.
Poor Sarah grows weak as each piece of dough rises.
They stumble through windows, they stream through the door.
They crowd in upon her, she cries out: “NO MORE!”
Though greatly outnumbered, she picks up a broom,
And dashes each ‘Chometsdik Soldier’ to doom.
“Out white bread, out rye bread, out brown pumpernickel!
Not one slice may stay, not even a shtickel!
Out challah, out corn bread, out tasty brown rolls!
Out bialys and babkas, and bagels with holes!
Out rice pudding, crackers, Hungarian strudel,
Out kasha, and knishes, and kugels of noodle!”
From out of her house all the Chometz is banished
Until every drop has entirely vanished.
To the top of the garbage, to the incinerator,
Each piece is brought low, sooner or later.
Why is this holiday different from others?
Because it makes cripples from all Jewish mothers!
But I heard Sarah say: “Pesach’s sure out of sight!
A Gut Yontif to all, and to all a good night!”
Ellen Wasserman lives in New Rochelle, N.Y.
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