Stand-up Comic

Mr. Shapiro, Stella's late father
was a stern and bear kind of man,
a short fused powder keg,
whom I, Jacob, stroked with deference
being comedian, and knowing there are limits.

One day when Stella prepared us late night snacks,
In-Law Father and I shot the breeze,
a lively discussion on Kant and Kafka
and other less ponderous krap.
As we hopped around Eastern Europe,
I mused;"You know, Pops, in the final analysis,
Schickelgruper may have been an act of God."

Slowly and menacingly, Mr. Shapiro rolled up his sleeve
as if to warn me he was preparing to punch me in the schnauzer,
but flashed instead his World War II memento, his Buchenwald tattoo.
I should have shut my mouth before I'd have to see that number one more time.
I should have known better than to breach the subject of Schikelgruper's Reich.

That night in the toilet,
while flossing bloody my teeth in penance,
In-Law Father said to daughter:
That schmuck of a husband talks too much,
one day he'll find his feet in concrete.
You should have heeded your mother's advice,
and married Doctor Blum, the gynecologist.

Who should wanna live with a bozo the rest of his days,
who reeks of nicotine and of drinks-on-the-house?
"But Dad, Jacob makes me happy, " cooed Stella love of my life,
"He rubs my feet before I fall asleep,
and in between he tickles."

He's like a one man 1001 Arabian Nights.
What's more, since last October, when we got hitched,
every night when he's not working,
he reads me verses from the Book.
"Vat Buch?" sneered Meyer Shapiro
-The book, daddy, don't make me blush...
You know the book... the Kama Sutra book.