In time for the holiday season, here is an anti-inspirational poem to spread that  Rosh Hashana cheer. 

 

The Shul I don’t go to, sits atop of a hill

Led by a rickety rabbi with a bucket to fill

A bucket of tears, sickly sappy and fake

In the course of his life he’s probably cried his own lake

 

And the congregants phew – don’t get me started

It’s been years since the paths of me and them have been parted

 

There’s greasy Yankl with dandruff

Chetzkel with gout

And Akiva, whose bad breath

I can do without

 

I am more righteous than they

In every ol’ way

And some day they’ll see…

When it’s heaven’s payday

 

The Shul I do go to, I’m excited to state

Is superior to theirs, which really is great

We have Kiddush every Shabbos, Chulent every lunch

And we finish Shachris prayers many hours ‘fore that bunch.

 

There are times I feel like going, but I remember to never

For self-control is a trait I’ve excelled at forever

I am humble and modest, pure and devoted

Unlike Dan that ol’ Gabai, I wish he’d get smoted

 

The Shul I don’t go to is important to me

I don’t go with a fervor, with devotion, with glee

Three times a day I don’t go, and I make a point

To not go with my muscles, my atoms, my joints

 

So if you need to find me, to give me some cash,

To tell me I’m awesome, or to cure my darn rash

You know where to find me, and you know where to not

Outside of that Shul I am easy to spot