From “Songs Without Words” by Leonid Alexeevich Bluski.

Take the yashmak off your head,
Fry it up with onions;
Mash it up with moldy bread
And rub it on your bunions.

Ah, yashmak,
Eh, yashmak,
Ee, yashmak,
Oh, yashmak,
Ooh, yashmak:
Take the yashmak off your head.

Take the yashmak off your head,
Cover it with mustard;
Beat it till the mix turns red
And serve it up like custard.

Ah, yashmak,
Eh, yashmak,
Ee, yashmak,
Oh, yashmak,
Ooh, yashmak:
Take the yashmak off your head.

A RESPONSE

On Receiving a Copy of “Take The Yashmak Off Your Head” Beside an Office Printer.

If these verses have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended:
That we did but slumber here
While these verses did appear
Unbid on our LaserJet,
Where we found them, ink still wet;
And, thinking what a shame ’twould be
Prodigally to waste a tree,
Gave the papers unto you,
In trust that you’d know what to do.
Ere long we will make amends
And become the best of friends;
Meanwhile, toss this paper in
The big round blue recycling bin.

—W. S.