Elie's Expositions

A bereaved father blogging for catharsis... and for distraction. Accordingly, you'll see a diverse set of topics and posts here, from the affecting to the analytical to the absurd. Something for everyone, but all, at the core, meeting a personal need.


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Friday, March 17, 2006

Purim and SP Day

Happy national holiday to all my readers who hail from the Emerald Isle! (do I have any??) If you're both Jewish and Irish you must be pretty happy by now, as you got to celebrate a drinking-related holiday twice this week.

In fact, Purim and SP Day always come fairly close together, and often do fall the same week. I don't see how they could possibly have any common origins though, so this is a just an interesting coincidence. But I do recall a fellow rabbinical student who hailed from Ireland, and was the subject of a YU press release for celebrating both holidays in 1984 when they fell on consecutive days. Of course, his rabbeim weren't too thrilled with this particular PR piece! Talk about the right hand not knowing what the left hand is doing...

But anyhoo, in honor of my Irish reader(s) (if any) and the confluence of these two joyous, if somewhat tipsy, holidays, here is my favorite Irish ballad, straight from the marvelous, twisted mind of Professor Tom Lehrer. Enjoy!

About a maid I’ll sing a song,
Sing rickety-tickety-tin,
About a maid I’ll sing a song
Who didn’t have her family long.
Not only did she do them wrong,
She did ev’ryone of them in, them in,
She did ev’ryone of them in.

One morning in a fit of pique,
Sing rickety-tickety-tin,
One morning in a fit of pique,
She drowned her father in the creek.
The water tasted bad for a week,
And we had to make do with gin, with gin,
We had to make do with gin.

Her mother she could never stand,
Sing rickety-tickety-tin,
Her mother she cold never stand,
And so a cyanide soup she planned.
The mother died with a spoon in her hand,
And her face in a hideous grin, a grin,
Her face in a hideous grin.

She set her sister’s hair on fire,
Sing rickety-tickety-tin,
She set her sister’s hair on fire,
And as the smoke and flame rose high’r,
Danced around the funeral pyre,
Playin’ a violin, -olin,
Playin’ a violin.

She weighted her brother down with stones,
Rickety-tickety-tin,
She weighted her brother down with stones,
And sent him off to davy jones.
All they ever found were some bones,
And occasional pieces of skin, of skin,
Occasional pieces of skin.

One day when she had nothing to do,
Sing rickety-tickety-tin,
One day when she had nothing to do,
She cut her baby brother in two,
And served him up as an irish stew,
And invited the neighbors in, -bors in,
Invited the neighbors in.

And when at last the police came by,
Sing rickety-tickety-tin,
And when at last the police came by,
Her little pranks she did not deny,
To do so she would have had to lie,
And lying, she knew, was a sin, a sin,
Lying, she knew, was a sin.

My tragic tale, I won’t prolong,
Rickety-tickety-tin,
My tragic tale I won’t prolong,
And if you do not enjoy the song,
You’ve yourselves to blame if it’s too long,
You should never have let me begin, begin,
You should never have let me begin.

1 Comments:

At 3/22/06, 2:51 PM, Blogger Attila said...

Don't forget the ballad of Finnegan's Wake (not to be too confused with the James Joyce novel).

Lyrics here.

Best part is when the people are fighting at the wake and someone spills whiskey on the corpse:

Then Mickey Maloney ducked his head,
When a noggin of whiskey flew at him,
It missed, and falling on the bed,
The liquor scattered over Tim!
The corpse revives! See how he raises!
Timothy rising from the bed,
Says,"Whirl your whiskey around like blazes,
Thanum an Dhoul! Do you think I'm dead?"

 

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