Tag: comedy

THE NEW TZURIS

(Sung to the melody of E. Barton, M. Barton, Irv Carroll, and Wright’s song, “Tzooris”)

“Heyyyy lucky!”

“What I’m lucky? Couple years ago I’m in Israel at a music festival. Suddenly, the concert stops, and everyone’s screaming.”

“Could be worse.”

“Could be worse? We were attacked! Hamas came swarming in, shooting people right and left, killing, maiming, torturing—a massacre!”

“Could be worse.”

“Worse? The terrorists beat me to a pulp, stabbed my wife, raped my daughter, and left us all for dead.”

“Could be worse.”

“Could be worse? How could it be worse???”

“It could’ve happened to me.”

Oy, Tsuris, Tsuris. Trouble all day long.
It’s hard to feel all right these days when everything is wrong.

“Heyyyy lucky!”

“What I’m lucky? Months later I’m go to teach my class at Columbia University, and I can’t get to the building. All these kids were occupying the campus, marching on the lawn, shouting how much they hate Zionism.”

“Oy, did you engage?”

“Yes, `cause I saw one of my own students, a Jewish kid, waving a Palestinian flag and hollering that Jews don’t deserve Israel.”

“Gevalt, stupid kids. What can you do?”

“What I could do was tell him: `Jews have always lived in Israel. And God knows, we’re entitled to it after the Holocaust.’”

“Good for you!”

“Not so good. The kid says his other professors taught him about colonialism and how Israel is stolen from the Arabs. Finally, I said, `You wanna talk about stolen? The ground you’re standing on was stolen from the Indians. The house you grew up in sits on land stolen from a different tribe. Those sneakers you’re wearing were made by Indonesian children laboring in factories that steal their childhood. And that essay you turned in last week? You stole it from the internet.’ The student got quiet. Then he hugged me, and I walked away.”

“That’s wonderful!”

“It was wonderful all the way to the subway. Then I realized…the little momzer stole my wallet!”
Oy, Tsuris, Tsuris. Everything’s the worst.
If trouble were a suitcase, my hernia would burst.

“Heyyyy Lucky!”

“Again with the lucky? Last week I’m passing by my synagogue, and I see this young twerp in a hoodie with sweatpants, spray painting on the front door.”

“Oy, grafitti?”

“Not just graffiti! It’s a swastika. I tell him, `I’m calling the cops. You can’t make this garbage!’ He says, `Don’t talk to me like that. I’m an artist!’ I say, `Mona Lisa is art. Impressionism is art. Even dogs on velvet playing poker is more art than this.’”

“I’m guessing he didn’t agree?”

“You’re guessing right. So I tell him, `If you’re so proud of your “street art,” why don’t you sign it? Not tag it; put your full name under the swastika and really own your work.’ And he does.”

“Really? Did the police get him?”

“Police? The next day men in suits take the door off the hinges, wrap it, and put it in a van. Two months later a gallery sells the door for $80,000.”

“Well, could be worse.”

“It was worse. The artist donated every penny to BDS.”

Oy, Tsuris, Tsuris. Trouble every minute.
Happiness is fleeting. But misery’s infinite.

Oy, Tsuris, Tsuris. Trouble, pain, and woe.
There’s more that we could tell you
But now we have to go.

(c)2026 David Lefkowitz