Suppose all the shalt nots and honor thys
were simply sight gags of a hyperthyroid
ancient. Let
s say all bets are off.
You can nab the loot and scurry.
The traffic lights have shorted out,
the cops are crammed in Dunkin Donuts,
your neighbors are queued at the lottery window.
You bet you can. Especially you,
whose beliefs have been subjected
to more X-rays than the shroud of Turin.
Then it could follow that a Seder
is just inebriate Thanksgiving,
and a rabbit the sum total of Easter.
The Irish question becomes:
is Guinness really good for you?
Sure as hell, a lump takes root under your arm,
a burglar jumps you in the shower,
a drunk passes his car through yours,
or your heart seizes up
in the dressing room at Jordan Marsh.
No Tabernacle Choir.
No posthumous reunions.
No bearded father figure.
Laughingstock of the disembodied,
and brickbats from all the shades.
Then out of the blue it hits you:
You were good for nothing.