Raised by heathens in suburban America,
we ate fried lobsters with beer,
and watched beasts of men
chase after stuffed pig skin.
We listened to symphonies,
read Dostoyevsky,
debated Nietzche,
and concluded that God was a feel-good drug.
Then one week after next,
we were invited to a rabbi's home
for Shabbos underneath two candles.
Slowly, we returned to our civilized roots,
found our tradition, rediscovered
the wisdom of our ancestors.
Men raised in the wild,
gave up fried lobsters for kugel,
Nietzche for Letters of the Rebbe,
and exchanged Nirvana
for the Miami Boys Choir.
Raised by heathens in suburban America,
we left behind
our aging heathen parents,
and followed in the one true way.
(The kiruv rabbi forgot to admit
that it was just a legal fiction.
D'oh)


