Turkey with gravy and stuffed full of dressing. . .
Work through four courses. . .more than ’nuff I’m fressing.
Piles of potatoes, green beans thin as strings—
These are some favorite Thanksgiving things.

Onions like pearls form a lace upon my plate,
Rum that I swirl and swig swims straight to my pate—
Drunkenness, then attempts at wife’s-sis flings—
These are some favorite Thanksgiving things.

Fist altercation with my brother-in-law,
Lip laceration: I place puncher in maw,
Red rivulets, a kvetch: “Wretch! that stings!!”
These are some favorite Thanksgiving things.

Then this dog bites,
So my knee brings
Itself to his nads;
I nearly de-member his favorite thing,
Then dig in to crabs and shads.

The mastication, though, requires a dressing,
Because gustation with redness I’m messing.
My sister-in-law applies it and sings.
Both inflamed, later we bang stiff bed springs.

Unctuous “pearls” shot straight into the substrate
Urgently girl-swirl in the strait where we mate.
Spunkeness swims, clings to an ovum’s ring—
This, not a favorite Thanksgiving thing.

Lip altercation with my sister-in-law. . .
Rips perforation. . .a “new one” ’neath my craw.
Out from the TV’s ringing “King of Kings”. . .
Not my favorite post-Thanksgiving things.

Need a “dog” bite;
The Jim Beam brings
Solace; I feel sad.
I wish I’d sheath-membered; my fate’s viscous fling
Has designated me “dad.”