There’s a comfortable familiarity
to the word complain.
Two Jews, three opinions.
That’s not the right melody.
There’s no food in the desert.
The water is bitter.
That’s not the way we usually do that.
Why did anything ever have to change?
We complain so much the complaints
themselves feel like our childhood blanket.
I’m wrapped up in the warmth of telling you
what’s wrong with this situation.
It’s nice that free bread came out of the sky
but do we really want to eat bread that’s
been in the dirt? In Egypt we weren’t free
but at least we knew our address.
It was nice singing and dancing on
the other side of the sea. Why don’t we
have parties like that anymore?
Complaining is one of our unofficial holidays.
And what’s with the holidays when we don’t eat?
Who thought that was a good idea?
It’s nice that the angel of death didn’t get us
but couldn’t we have achieved that without the blood?
And what about the line lengths of this poem?
Why are they all different sizes?
The words are nice but it’s hard to look at.
We can do so much better than this.