Matzot

This is the penalty we pay each year
For our obedience. Unleavened bread
Does not exit the body easily,
And so the gut makes its displeasure clear.
I wish that it could send a note instead,
Some little memo to appeal to me
And ask me not to eat it. Yet I must,
So every year, about this time, I know
That pain will suddenly and deeply grow
Until I feel that it or I must bust.
It is the symptom of our utter trust
In our commandment. If we let it go
No pain would come - we eat it even so
And welcome this, even despite disgust.