December 01
FUNNY THANKSGIVING LEFTOVERS POEM
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 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 handful of pie.
But I managed to yell as I soared past the trees...
Happy eating to all -- pass the cranberries, please!
November 19
"When the Frost is on the Punkin"
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin turkey-cock,
And the clackin’ of the guineys, and the cluckin’ of the hens,
And the rooster hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
O, it’s then the times a feller is a feelin’ at his best,
With the risin sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house bare-headed, and goes out to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the punkin’ and the fodder’s in the shock.
There’s something kindo’ harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer’s over and the coolin’ fall is here—
Of course we’ll miss the flowers and the blossoms on the trees,
And the mumble of the hummin’-birds and buzzin’ of the bees;
But the air’s so appetizin’;and the landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a picture that no painter has the colorin’ to mock—
When the frost is on the punkin’ and the fodder’s in the shock.
The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
And the raspin’ of the tangled leaves as golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries—kinda lonesome –like, but still
A preachin’ sermons to us of the barns they growed to fill;
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
The hosses in their stalls below—the clover overhead!—
O, it sets my hart a-clickin’ like the tickin’ of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin’ and the fodder’s in the shock!
Then your apples all is getherd, and the ones a feller keeps
Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps;
And your cider-makin’ ‘s over, and your wimmen-folks is through
With the mince and apple-butter, and they r souse and sausage too!
I don’t know how to tell it—but ef sich a thing could be
As the angels wantin’ boardin’, and the’d call around on me—
I’d want to commodate `em—all the whole indurin’ flock—
When the frost is on the punkin’ and the fodder’s in the shock!
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