I'm overwhelmed by thoughts of Jolly Nick.
of whom I had a fleeting glimpse tonight.
I'm distrusting of men in red pajamas.
He looked to me a fat cat sizing up a rodent.
He looked to me unclean.
On his head he wore a three cornered hat.
Like his vest and beard, his hat --- it too was greasy,
slipped down his forehead, shielding beady eyes
that glowed with cinders of gluttony and other unholy appetites.
He smoked hashish from a Turkish pipe, and the smoke he blew
looked as if from villages burned to the ground.
His voice sounded like boulders pushed by deluge.
Can such an unsavory type, though he wishes you a Happy Hanukkah
put survival anxieties to rest? No way!
My memory of pogroms is too long.
Thus, I'd prefer a convention of witches
than to be in the company of festive Cossacks.
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