זה הפך מנהג בישראל כי במשך ארבע שנים מדי שנה את הנשים הצעירות של ישראל יצאה להתאבל על בתו של יפתח הגלעדי.
(It became a custom in Israel that for four years every year the young women of Israel
went out to mourn for the daughter of Jephthah the Gileadite.)
- Judges 11: 39-40.
Young lady, young lady! Woman!
Where is young woman?
I want to say that she turns to me, face aglow like a Jill-o-Lantern
and she's going to kick my ass. She's going to burn rubber while flicking several things off & on
and tell me that I'm guacamole dip for her tortilla, tortilla, tortilla chips.
She is standalone, free with a telephone chord of her own around her neck.
I said Daisy, Daisy!
Where is the young lady?
She doesn't hear me but she's got that
shiver stuck in her spine and those goose bumps in her nasal cavities
like our adventures in Underland
while I still wonder and -
WHERE IS DAISY, MY DAISY?
I SAID YOUNG WOMAN, OH MY YOUNG LADY!
She got a nose job last week and she still refuses to look up even though she's now a flower, but
it is twelve 'o clock Cinderella. She said give me one hour
more. Another two months to show God that I can be useful
and I can be a sheep, (Ba ba black -
sheep, yes sir, here is my wool.
Here is my handle and here is my shout. There are my buttons,
turn me inside out then in and back again and again and -
Oh Daisy, young lady.
My young woman. Sweet virgin.
Don't cry, bugaboo. I will take you in and take care of you and
I will make sure it was not in vain and not in sin and that HahaPapa will not live
in vain and not in sin so do not cry.
Eat, you are too thin.
Let the bread and blood and flesh and wine soothe your throat, or does that part not happen yet?
She looks at me,
virgin young lady, oh sweet woman Daisy.
Am I fair, am I just? Am I sensibly incomprehensible? Look at the dust
on my epidermis thin pages, because my house is uneven and crumbling
like playing cards when the wind rages and backhands whoever is in her way.
She just said okay.
Oh Dai-ai-aisy, sweet Daisy.
Speak to me.
Are you a young woman, young lady?
She's got fire sliding down her cheeks and regret furrowing her brow and
I could tell her now, I could shake my head in shame and still put out the flames but
instead she doesn't let me, instead she weeps.
Will she burn? Has she learned?
Oh my Daisy, young lady woman.
What will I do with thee?
Run to me, Daisy, run to me.
A/N: Not to sound vainglorious but damn, I love this.