The last piece of apple pie is gone; How did it disappear? The bowl of delicious stuffing Has also vanished, I fear.
It happens each Thanksgiving, When leftover goodies flee, And each of us knows the responsible one Couldn't be you or me.
The only way it could happen Is readily diagnosed; It must be the crafty, incredibly sneaky, Still hungry Thanksgiving ghost. - Anonymous
Your Secret's Secure
Thanksgiving's the time in November each year When our thoughts about food seem to richen, When turkey and dressing and other good stuff Is being prepared in the kitchen. But the stores did their homework way in advance; They know what your real needs will be; They know you'll come shopping to buy up their best, And those sharing your feast will soon see. You're the best cook in town, a peerless gourmet, The turkey, dessert and the wine; And your secret's secure that this feast was all made By your grocery, and they sure did it fine!
I sat at the table, eager to eat To have my fill, right at my seat My father carved the Turkey A wonderful sight My mother asked me “dark meat or white”? But just before my plate came near My little dog Edgar pulled up from the rear He jumped on the table in a single bound Landing in the middle with nary a sound He landed on my Turkey One and all could see And right there Edgar decided to pee I shook in horror, I quaked in fright But in the end, I knew Edgar was right He’s just a dog, and did what dogs do I could not be angry, but I told him to shoo So mother cleaned the table, and discarded the Turkey And in it's place we had beef jerky!
Packing My Bags
Just for once on this most American day I packed my bags and went away A real Thanksgiving I did seek Perhaps all alone on a mountain peak But why on this very day, did I choose to run away? To miss the parade and the football game The sales at Macy’s and at Target the same What gripe could I have against Thanksgiving? Which stirred in me so much misgiving? It’s not so nice to whine and groan But still I chose to be alone I suppose I wished to imbue the day With a little meaning in some special way To think of 1621, when it had all begun A bountiful meal in the autumn sun When the Wampanoag and Pilgrims they did feast In little Plymouth Village, in the east