The Jew did not go to his synagogue

To be flogged.

But it was solemn,

That church without bells.

He preferred the brightness of bells,

The mille fiori of vestments,

The voice of centuries

On the priestly gramophones.

It was the custom

For his rage against chaos

To abate on the way to church,

In regulations of his spirit.

How good life is, on the basis of propriety,

To be followed by a platter of capon!

Yet he kept promising himself

To go to Florida one of these days,

And in one of the little arrondissements

Of the sea there,

To give this further thought.