Thanksgiving Burp


    T’is the week after Thanksgiving dinner and in my sleep.

    Strange dreams in my brain, begin to slowly creep

    Thanksgiving leftovers beckoned both the dark meat and white,

    But I fight the temptation with all of my might.

    Tossing and turning in sleep with anticipation,

    The dream of a snack becomes prolonged recitation.

    So to the kitchen I do hasten, fling open the door,

    And gaze into a refrigerator full of goodies galore.

    I now gobble up turkey and buttered potatoes,

    Some pickles and carrots, some beans and tomatoes.

    I feel myself swelling so plump and so round,

    And suddenly, I feel myself lift off the ground.

    I crash through the ceiling. And float into the sky

    With a mouthful of pudding and a handful of Thanksgiving pie,

    But I manage to holler as I ascend above Malibu’s palm trees.

    Happy leftovers to all, Mr. Peacock more cranberries please.

    Tom Fakehany