The Night After

‘Twas the night of Thanksgiving when all through the flat

Not a creature was stirring, not even the cat,

And Johnnie lay sleeping upon his small cot,

He might have been dreamless, but then he was not.

He saw in his vision a table piled high

With sauces and dressings and puddings and pie,

And there in the center, upon a big plate

He saw himself lying in elegant state.

He was browned to a turn and was stuffed for a king,

With his legs in the air, and each arm was a wing,

And he tried to turn over and dash from the place,

But he couldn’t move muscle, much less win a race,

And a dozen big gobblers sat there in a ring

And they pecked at his legs and they dug at his wing.

He tried to call “father” and “mother” in vain,

And still they kept pecking and causing him pain.

At last, with an effort, he made a big slash

And off from the table he flew with a crash,

And when he awakened his two parents said:

“Good gracious, Jon Augustus, please stay in your bed!”

Nov. 24, ‘09