Rugelach

I want to be a rugelach.
I'd like an excuse to say
something in Yiddish for once.
I'm not a Jew, but I know
a putz who is constantly
shickered and drives his
motha' meshuggener
I want to be a rugelach
with old world cinnamon
and Brooklyn apples, with
some chopped stereotypical
walnuts, who say: "You're
getting skinny, you need to
eat!" I've got to shout it with
a nasally accent from a laced
doily on a cookie platter. "Eat
the rugelach, bubula, it's your
favorite."
If I were a rugelach, I could
feed my grand-children
savory treats from "Old country."
We could sing songs and stuff our
faces. We could nosh to our heart's
content.
"If you come visit Nana, I'll tell you
story of how I met grandpapa in
the Warsaw Ghettos, eh?"
I would be a wholesome treat for the kiddies