There's praise for the soldier behind the gun,
Who fights after others tire;
But here's to the victim of fate's worst blow,
The Hebrew who don't have a fire.
There's flame in his optic that bodeth ill,
There's a dangerous set of jaw;
There's a mighty unrest in his heaving chest,
And he scoffs at the moral law.
Then woe to the creature—or man, or beast—
That rouseth the smoldering ire
Of the Jew who heavily insures his place,
Then finds he can't have a fire.
That song always gives my friend Rosensky a bad attack of indigestion.
All the time I'm singing it he keeps moaning:
"Dink if that vas me. Dink!"
The time I was boarding, my landlady's name was Mrs. Closefist.
One day she went to the grocery store and says:
"I'd like to have some more of that bad butter you sold me last week."