Today’s baby number 83;
the mohel is on a takin’ spree.
They’re gone, the flesh stubs
that one time formed a hood.
Up high are piled the takings from the cleaving world.

When the babe makes day eight, way before the Bar,
it’s time to hew on that little spar.
There on the chode, cape for head—
off it comes all; some have a lot bled.
There’s a good lop as he curves with a slice;
at least he could put on little ice.
A cryin’ guy, a lung-fueled blast,
the painful screams that come to pass.

Today’s baby number 83;
the mohel is on a flayin’ spree.
They gone, the flesh stubs
that one time formed a hood.
Up high are piled the takings from the fleaming world.

When the kid grows up, and then he starts to pound
the appendage that was hanging down:
something warm is running down his thighs
expended from where once sliced that knife.
With a raised head he’d like a pie instead.
Holding sparring makes a wicked smile.
A fist-held post where he’d been snipped. . fast Bris.
He’s bound for love from not a fist—a miss.
But until one’s yon, he’ll be forced to hold it tight—
this proxy for love ain’t quite right.

Well, where oh where can his baby be?
He’s sore, hooking voraciously.
He wants a fleshpot
to make him feel so good.
Then he can leave off playing and receive a girl.