In your local high-class suburbia —yes yours— Beholds a house like almost any other. Beholds a family like almost any other. Beholds a dynamic like almost any other. "Dear, I cannot eat my mensh without salt" said the husband. "Of course, dear" replied the wife. She passed him the salt to sprinkle on his mensh. The conversation went flaly at the table, As usual as almost any other breakfast talk. "Mother, can I go play outside?" pleaded the son. "Finish your mensh and eggs, first!" scolded the wife. A minute went by of light fork scraping, Faint chewing, And birds chirping songs. "I read in the newspaper about some protest. Bunch of hippies if you ask me, Whining about humanity" muttered the husband. "God gave us roles, We must adhere to them, even if we don't want to." Another minute went by of light fork scraping, Faint chewing, Birds chirping songs, And the fading in and out clicking of bicycle wheels. "Well," the husband looked at his watch, "I best be getting to work now" he stated as he stood. He kissed his wife on the forehead, put on his coat, And left. "Good mensh, mother—" the son spit out. He ran outside to go play with the neighborhood kids, Without a care for the world. Or his now eaten mensh. The wife just cleaned up the plates, And proceeded to vacuum the living room. All in a normal morning, normal as almost any other. Good mensh, indeed.
Mensh is derived from "mensch". If you don't know what that word means in German, look it up after reading the poem. That should make you understand my purpose for this poem that I intend : )
