The land of slavery, or that as we sprinted,
Our knapsacks full of almost risen bread,
We actually escaped, or that God imprinted
Our people with a duty at Sinai.
It isn't manna falling from the sky.
It's that, after nine plagues that struck us all
Blood in the river, frogs on everyone,
Boils and locusts, lice and hail, the fall
Of sudden darkness cutting off the sun,
The dying cattle, flies in hordes unknown,
We huddled in our houses as death flew
Past blood-soaked lintels, and we heard the groan
That said we'd been passed over as he slew.
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