The mohle: gory-ore harvester; he's boring--
Soon my shaft will feel the shock.
At least he will not touch my seeded bag. . .
Roll back then slash, but not the pouch.

I know that I'll be Shadrached,
My glad wrap whacked till it's gone.
Bet my dink stains as he dices what's once mine.
It's cleavin' off that slack fold,
Then is riven my member's fleece.
Oy! People known as gentiles don't get mined.

It's still clingin' to my stalk; I like it;
Rabbi's gonna cut it and unbind me.
There's gonna be a bloody head,
But it will clot, and one day I'll be walkin'.

I may make the Mohle's ears curl
As I'm cursin' while he's shivvin'
And defrocking my poor male mode, capped. He'll find
That I'm shmoozin' out a bad load
Of kibitzing. . ."Messhuge!" screech.
Then I glower because gentiles don't get tined.

It's a fleece yield, off he's shorn mine,
There's a pud shard from the high pate of my penis.
And I am moanin', cryin' like my brother
When his turban was all gone.
I wish they'd numb 'fore slicin';
Here's to goys--ain't got to face
Havin' a sundered, plundered, and undone rind.
My view is blocked; I cannot see
The raw skin on my jack node.
There's a river flowin' jaundiced and saline.

I'm snipped, I'm cut, my tube's whacked.
When the girls'll jack my caudex that's been trained hard,
I'm sheared, uncovered-pole style
'cause that dermal hat's pulled off without a trace.
With cupped hand 'round a skinned gland,
My best friend they'll hold till spent sement has rimed
Like a paste skrimmed on my crack node
That was riven; but for fressery,
Yentzing shiksas smile: nongentile knobs are fine.