When shacharit is coming to a close
And all the men do stand and take their leave
Their tallit wrapped around as snow-white robes
The kiddish club doth meet beneath the eaves
They deign to miss the torah read out live
And Musaf p’raps shall not return to pray
For though they may be pushing thirty five
They need a shot to get them through the day
But then, as conversation slowly dies
And those assembled start to look within
A crock pot full of stew is brought outside
And all the men rejoice. The hunt begins.
For deep within the stew there lies the beef;
And til it’s found, o none shall feel relief.
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