The smell first hits me from five blocks away,
It’s Friday and I can’t stay away,
The Blue Jays are playing but I won’t likely risk it,
I’m here with a plan to binge on her brisket.
My mother’s brisket,
So moist and tender,
Always sends me,
On another Shabbos bender,
The onions and carrots look nice,
I don’t need them and potatoes, no dice,
There are only two things that suffice,
My mother and her brisket.
My mother’s brisket,
So silky smooth,
Whatever might happen all week,
There’s nothing quite like it to soothe,
Don’t need a forshpeis or any desserts,
I got no room, my stomach already hurts,
On Monday I’m altering shirts,
Thanks to her brisket.
I want to climb, climb,
Into her brisket,
I could cry, die,
At the thought of her brisket,
I want to swim in her gravy and thrillingly flailing,
I’ll whisk it,
The judges will give all the gold,
To my mother’s brisket.
My mother’s brisket
Strictly glatt
The butchers revere her
Reserving the very, extraordinary, best cut
Her picture’s on the wall in between Schneerson and Yentl
Her brisket can make even flossing seem transcendental
I’m alive, diving,
Into her brisket,
I swoon, spoon,
Her soft sweet brisket,
And if I really get lucky tonight,
Though it’s easy ’cause she loves to spoil,
Shabbos candles will reflect their last light,
In blessed tin foil.
I want to climb, climb,
Into the tin foil,
I can’t wait to get home,
With my tin foil.
I’m gonna run all the red lights,
Pull it over, stop it and frisk it,
I want twenty-five years to life,
With my mother’s brisket,
Solitarily confined to every slice,
Of my mother’s brisket.