The poor man’s schlepping a big bag

of flour he’s bought for the Hag

of Passover, to bake his matzohs.

The road is muddy.   “Must be nuts!” is

what many passers-by are thinking,

though some believe he has been drinking,

because he staggers with the weight

of his unwieldy flour freight,

making sure there is no slack

in his great burden. If the sack

should touch the ground he fears he’d die;

the flour always must stay dry,

for moisture makes the flour leaven,

and nobody can go to heaven

if they eat chomets on the Hag.

That’s why he schlepps his flour bag

so carefully, avoids the mud;

it’s in his bones and in his blood

to do this mitzvoh every year.

A rich man in his coach comes near

and sees the poor man as he’s toiling

to keep his burden safe from spoiling,

avoiding mud that ruins flour

no less than any April shower

on Passover, when all Jews try

to keep their flour very dry.

He sees the clouds now threaten rain

which surely would increase the pain

the poor man feels with his great burden;

in sympathy he too is hurting

Now when the poor man comes in view

the coachman’s eye avoids the Jew;

his master, Litvak, tells the Balt

that he immediately should halt:

though he’s a maskil and a freier,

he feels the poor man’s fate is dire.

“On such a very muddy road

no man should to have to haul his load:

come in the carriage!” he exclaims,

and drives him. They exchange no names.

The poor man, grateful, silent davens.

as soon as he can see the ovens

to bake the matzohs, “Thanks, sh’koi’ach,

I was exhausted, had no koi’ach.

My flour would have been quite muddy

if you had not been my best buddy,

what some call Good Samaritan,”

he says, his voice deep baritone.

A voice like his in muddy ditches

is useless if you have no riches.

The rich man says: “Please do not mention

a word of this to other menschen.

If people learn about such favors

my house will fill up with non-shavers

who try depriving me of wealth,

with beards and black kapote filth.

I am not frum, I’m from the city

where it’s bad form to show some pity

towards a schnorrer such as you.”

Death’s Angel one day brought this Jew

to Heaven’s gate.  His deeds were weighed.

It seemed that he’d not made the grade,

because his sins had tipped the scales.

Kateygor called out: “This man fails.”

An angel who was called Saneygor

had seen this rich man help the baker

whose matzoh flour was not wet.

Kateygor made him most upset,

and so he hurried down to earth,

collecting mud, where there’s no dearth,

for mud there is ubiquitous.

“This man is not iniquitous!”

he said, and piled mud in the pan

to tip the scales for that rich man,

because he’d acted as behooved,

and with his one good impulse proved

a tsaddik by, before the hag,

protecting flour in a bag

and helping one poor man attain

his goal, come wind and mud and rain.

By helping men for whom it’s rough

one mitzvoh often is enough.

Forget the stains upon your carpet,

look upwards and ignore the tarpit

like those you may see at La Brea:

beyond the superficial layer

are depths by which, exploring, you

may find the pintele true Jew.

If men bring mud into your home,

just concentrate on heaven’s dome

and ask yourself: “Would angels mind

the mud a poor man left behind

when he came to me for a meal?”

That mud may help you make a deal

with God when you may need Saneygor,

so keep in mind our matzoh baker.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)