the jew in you,
something
you long suspected,
or long lamented.

too bad,
the absence of
this moniker if it  
ain’t applicable directly
to your sorry ***.

after all who doesn’t
want to be among the
ch-ch-chosen peeps?

this blessing
in disguise,
it’s very special
to be hated by
almost,
everyone.

hatred,,
the great equalizer,
highlighting your
choicest features
race, gender, roman nose,
etc., etc., etc.

but like the song said,
though somebody may
hate unlucky you,
everybody, no exceptions,
hates the jews.

everyone knows
the jews own the banks.
everybody hates the banks
who leave you on hold,
leaving you, wondering why,
they won’t give you back
at the ATM, the good money
you lent them,
so you must be
minimum 10%
shrewish (shhhh-jewish) or
whaat! why?

yup, your deposit is
a liability on their books,
(they owe it back to you)
so you too are
a moneylender,
congrats!

welcome to the club,
the club of being
a liability.

we jews travel
around the world,
chased out from
almost everywhere.

so we invented the
around-world-cruise,
and the world gave
us steerage class
to remind us,
even the jew in you,
that’s OUR special place.


postscript:
(All) Jewish Lives Matter!
Oy!
(don’t get me started...)

(nevertheless ex post facto still flattered
genuine heartfelt kinship mattered,
hence the reasonable rhyme
across the webbed wide world
I subsequently scattered).

Linkedin to the previous poem,
(similarly written scant few years ago.

I also codified, glorified, and lamented
an unexpected cessation of communication
with he/him who affixed yours truly
appellation of wise man, which modesty
of mine gently downplays.

Bhutan names defy affiliating,
determining, identifying... gender,
and what a faux pas this dada admits,
when a blessed high school
student did league gully tender

benighted, gifted, ordained yours truly
with sobriquet "Guru"
alluded to in previous poem, render
ring this foolish hearty good fella (me)
falling prey to embarrassing situation,

(I did miss render
as would be expected
from this crash test dummy,
who dented his psychological fender),
vis virtual mind ******,

when an initial presumption
smarted Matthew Scott as offender,
asper online youth NO pretender
by him, aye mean the sender
communicated his admiration,

adoration, adulation for this big spender
of sincerity, viz singular poetic magi - (ha)
made presumption that
unknown messenger slender,
and female, and

upon enclosing appender
referencing person as "lovely princess"
did respondent clarify finding deface
of zee poet here -
logic chops went thru blender

as if slapped by a suspender
experiencing irrevocable shame
as though a contender
attempting to guide false supposition
playfully mistaking ******

identity of male sender,
he (young kneeler)
bowed as winning scoring goaltender
down as mine professed

metrical feet, he who acquiesced
non Asian minor, friender
NOT seeking moneylender,
nor mistook my heart of gold,
mine apology I did obligingly surrender

and possibly chuckled to himself,
asper an uproarious hellbender
whereat my countenance turned
sixty plus four shades of lavender.

In Venice, by the shining sea,
Lived Antonio, kind and free.
His friend Bassanio needed gold,
To win fair Portia, wise and bold.

To Shylock, the moneylender cold,
Antonio went, his heart was bold.
They made a deal, risky and strange,
A pound of flesh — a scary exchange!

Portia lived in Belmont bright,
Where suitors came, both day and night.
With clever tricks and a golden ring,
She chose Bassanio, her heart would sing.

Meanwhile, Shylock’s anger grew,
Antonio’s ships all lost at sea too.
In court they stood, in fear and dread,
But Portia came, dressed like a head.

She spoke of mercy, sweet and true,
And saved Antonio — the crowd all knew.
Shylock lost his wealth and pride,
While love and joy stood side by side.

So ends the tale, of love and hate,
Of friendship strong and twist of fate.
The Merchant’s story, old yet wise,
Still lives today, beneath the skies.