I wrote the worlds worst Thanksgiving day poem. and now I infict it on all of you!
Why there are no traditional thanksgiving day poems like the night before christmas, by Tim Pierce:
Twas the night before Givethanks, and all through the house
Sounds of frantic pie baking, yes, even the mouse.
In the stockade birds preyed with a fervent appeal,
In hopes on the morrow we would all switch to Veal.
The panicked cooks tossed and turned up in their beds,
While visions of burnt turkeys played through their heads.
And mom in her apron and I in my cap,
Had just finally baked the last #$%^&ing gingersnap.
When out on the lawn there arose such a racket,
I ran from the kitchen to see if I should smack it.
Away to the doorway I ran with a bat,
Tore onto the front porch to settle the spat.
The rain in the clouds of the November night
Made the yard muddy and look quite a fright.
When, what to my wondering eyes should then prowl,
But a miniature turkey pan and eight tiny fowl.
With a strange little driver, so grumpy and quirky,
I knew in a moment it must be St Turkey.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!
"Now Drumstick! now, Gobbles! now, Birdbrain and Nixon!
On, Stuffing! , Turducken! on, Sandwich and Fixins!
To the top of the kitchen! And watch out for that ridge!
Now leftovers! leftovers! Lets raid the fridge"
As dry leaves that before the wild turkey fly,
When they meet with the fridge door, they blow it sky high.
Through clouds of shrapnel the baked birds then flew,
With the pan full of Tupperware and tinfoil too.
And then, with a crash that I heard from the floor
The sound of these bird raiders searching for more.
As I lifted my bat, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Turkey came with a horrible sound.
He was dressed all in Gravy , from his toes to his beak,
And his face was a horror not meant for the weak.
A Bushel of Brussels sprouts he wore on his head,
Mashed potatoes for clogs, and a belt made of bread
His eyes-how they glowed like the coals from a fire!
And I knew then our plight was really quite dire!
This turkey then strolled through the wreck of our home ,
Cackling madly like a demented garden gnome.
A week old drumstick he held tight in his teeth,
And the stench of it reeked beyond all belief.
He had a grim face made of cranberry jelly,
That shook when he talked and gave nightmares to Nelly!
He was angry and bitter, a right pissed off bird,
And he surveyed our oven with scarcely a word!
A gleam of his eye and a shake of his head,
Soon made me think we’d be better off dead.
He spoke not a word, but went right to the fridge ,
And pointed to the carcass of his former Aunt Midge.
“So you want to eat turkey this Thanksgiving day?”
“Well the tables have turned!” he then started to say
And that’s when the swat team arrived at a run
And shot the stunned turkeys with hundreds of guns
So remember when cooking on turkey day night
"Lock the kitchen door tightly and stay in the light"