‘Twas the night of Thanksgiving, but I just couldn’t sleep.
I tried counting backwards, I tried counting sheep.
The leftovers beckoned,the dark meat and white,
But I fought the temptation with all of my might.

Tossing and turning with anticipation,
The thought of a snack became infatuation.
So I raced to the kitchen, flung open the door,
And gazed at the fridge full of goodies galore.

I gobbled up turkey and buttered potatoes,
Pickles and carrots, beans and tomatoes.
I felt myself swelling so plump and so round,
Till all of a sudden, I rose off the ground!

I crashed through the ceiling. Floating into the sky,
With a mouthful of pudding and a handful of pie.
But I managed to yell as I soared past the trees…
Happy eating to all! Pass the cranberries, please!

* You know that your turkey is a Butterball rather than a Grade E yet semi-edible fur ball.

* Your mother will not be serving your mashed potatoes and stuffing with an ice cream scooper.

* Pumpkin pie is a great alternative to green jello.

* After your eighth glass of cider, your emergency dash to the bathroom will not be delayed by having to line the seat with toilet paper.

* Clean underwear, comfortable bed, access to a car, bedroom larger than a 12×14 cell…Even if it is for only four days.

* To eat your meals, the only trek you’ll have to make is from the couch to the kitchen, rather than the dorm to the dining hall in below freezing weather.

* Instead of listening to “When I first started teaching here…” you can be entertained by “When your mother was your age…” and “during the Depression we weren’t lucky enough to have Brussels sprouts. Hell, all we could afford was the sprout!”

* You can eat your corn steamed with butter rather than popped in your microwave.

* You know the hair in the shower drain is your own.

* You won’t be eating your Thanksgiving meal off a tray!

When I was a young turkey, new to the coop,
My big brother Mike took me out on the stoop,
Then he sat me down, and he spoke real slow,
And he told me there was something I had to know;
His look and his tone I will always remember,
When he told me of the horrors of…..Black November;

“Come about August, now listen to me,
Each day you’ll get six meals instead of just three,
And soon you’ll be thick, where once you were thin,
And you’ll grow a big rubbery thing under your chin.”

“And then one morning, when you’re warm in your bed,
In’ll burst the farmer’s wife, and hack off your head.
Then she’ll pluck out your feathers so you’re bald ‘n pink,
And scoop out your insides and leave ya lyin’ in the sink.”

“And then comes the worst part,” he said not bluffing,
“She’ll spread your cheeks and pack your rear end with stuffing.”
Well, the rest of his words were too grim to repeat,
I sat on the stoop like a winged piece of meat.

I decided on the spot that to avoid being cooked.
I’d have to lay low and remain overlooked.
I began a new diet of nuts and granola,
High-roughage salads, juice and diet cola.

And as they ate pastries, chocolates and crepes,
I stayed in my room doing Jane Fonda tapes.
I maintained my weight of two pounds and a half,
And tried not to notice when the bigger birds laughed.

But ’twas I who was laughing, under my breath,
As they chomped and they chewed, ever closer to death.
And sure enough when Black November rolled around,
I was the last turkey left in the whole compound.

So now I’m a pet in the farmer’s wife’s lap;
I haven’t a worry, so I eat and I nap.
She held me today, while sewing and humming,
And smiled at me and said, “Christmas is coming….”

The turkey shot out of the oven,
And rocketed into the air.
It knocked every plate off the table,
And partly demolished a chair.

It ricocheted into a corner,
And burst with a deafening boom.
Then splattered all over the kitchen,
Completely obscuring the room.

It stuck to the walls and the windows.
It totally coated the floor.
There was turkey attached to the ceiling,
Where there’d never been turkey before.

It blanketed every appliance.
It smeared every saucer and bowl.
There wasn’t a way I could stop it.
That turkey was out of control!

I scraped and I scrubbed with displeasure,
And thought with chagrin as I mopped,
That I’d never again stuff a turkey
With popcorn that hadn’t been popped.

Gobbler said, “Doctor, help me! I can’t stop acting like a turkey!”
“I see,” said the doctor. “How long have you had this problem?”
“Let me think a second. Mom laid the egg in 1954…”