We had left the Fillmore that New Year’s Eve, heads full of noise and smoke, still dancing in the icy moonlight on Second Avenue, where old Jews, broken from the sweatshops, had once crowded into Yiddish theaters.

Steam fogged the bright windows of the deli, and inside the fragrance of pickles and smoked meats was as thick as perfume in a bordello.

How crowded it was! Hash-heads devouring Danish with corned beef, while lovers, brains tinted pink and blue with acid, counted the holes in the matzoh balls.

But you, Bernie, were not among them. You were in the back room, a starry-eyed Menshevik debating a Bolshevik with big yellow teeth and jellied calves feet in his mouth, and I prayed for you Bernie, prayed that Stalin wouldn’t emerge from the grave to plant an ice axe in your head.

And now here you are again, shining like a lava lamp in the Trumpian darkness, a white-haired, arm-waving sage, singing old songs to youngsters who never heard them, songs without meaning or music, offering up sugar-spun wishes like cotton candy.

Oh, the beauty, you say, when we are wrapped in the loving arms of government. Who could doubt a faceless bureaucrat would love you less than the silent God? So I am listening to you Bernie, remembering seaside summers and ice skating on a Norman Rockwell pond, because I also love the dream of an America that never was and never will be.

I see the jew. You should too.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=4454814&forum_id=2#39661354)