There once was a bocher named Roy
who wasn't much more than a boy
when he noted with gusto
(and a wee bit of lusto)
that he'd like to wed Helen of Troy.
His parents tried to explain--
with fervent, insistent refrain--
though she was a beaut
(and worth lots of loot)
she didn't have much of a brain.
Now sechel's important for some,
but what's more is that justice is done:
meaning no love elixir
can make Helen the Shikser
bashert for a good Jewish son.
There once was a woman named Helen,
who in Tulsa pianos was selling.
Though she was a goy,
she fell for sweet Roy,
whose mother was not, let's say, kvelling.
But the couple did what they had to;
they stuffed up a duffel and flew
to the streets of New York,
full of bagels and pork,
and a flat built for sweetheart and Jew.
Now bubbe knows naught of their kids,
just they're not by halacha true Yids,
And zayde complains
of his arthritis pains,
and struggles with ego and id.