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.