Growing up benighted in a Norskie neighborhood,
I never knew that matzo tasted plain but very good.
We didn’t have a neighbor with mezuzot on their doors;
No one wore a yarmulke or shopped at kosher stores.
But when I left my little hytte, upon the world to snoop,
I discovered wonders such as matzo balls in soup.
Gefilte fish I sampled and the latke I adored,
And so I learned that noshing is its tasty own reward.
I still am eating matzo; I enjoy it with sardines,
Or spread some leverpostei on it with fresh salad greens.
I may get indigestion, but you cannot indict me
For prejudice when I am on a gourmandizing spree.