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Wit on Hold

I heard that there

Are simply those

Who sit and wait all year

To read just what

Bashevkin says

As summertime draws near

What will be the subject?

No one really knows

Camps or trips

Or high-priced tips

Or just plain bungalows

Or maybe ‘bout fireworks

That burst into the sky

Displays of freedom we all watch

The 4th day of July

 

But how can he 

Just sit and muse

While sitting in the sun

And write about the country life

And kids just having fun?

 

When ‘cross the sea

In our land

Indeed the children run

But lo, I fear

They run this year

But they’re not having fun

 

They are not running in a game

Nor running helter skelter

They are not kicking soccer balls

They’re running to find shelter

 

And fireworks are in the air

But no one’s leaving home

They’re praying that

The Kassams miss

Or meet the Iron Dome

 

It’s hard to write

Of color war

Or talk of summer breeze

For winds of war

Are swirling ‘round

With great gusts of unease

 

So all the wit

Is put on hold

And rhymes they’re slow to form

I’m sad to say

Instead of sun

I’m stuck inside a storm

 

For now there is no humor

It’s not a time for jokes

It’s just a time we daven that

The Hamas monster chokes

 

Quite soon at least

Perhaps next week

Some humor I’ll display

To once again

Re-entertain

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