‘Twas the night before Thanksgiving and everything on the stove
Was boiling over in a mess when Mama had dozed.
The chitterlings were stinking. I think they were scorched.
My nose started bleeding so I threw them on the porch.
Mama was all comfortable, drooling on the couch
While my fast ass sister was getting dressed to sneak out.
And I in my jammies and ghetto stocking cap
Was pissed to finish cooking because mama took a nap.
When out on the lawn there arose such a noise
That scared my dog and the neighborhood boys.
Away to the window I flew like a flash
Ducking for cover from bullets through glass.
A drunk driver had crashed into the stop sign outside.
Grabbing my heart I exclaimed, “Oh my!”
On Thanksgiving Day who’d want to be
Holed up in a hospital with a bed pan to pee?
The little old driver who was tanked and high
Celebrated too soon before going out to drive.
More rapid than eagles his ass flew
As our street filled with men in blue.
I felt kind of bad as he stumbled away
But at least unshackled he’d spend Thanksgiving Day.
Unlike myself, a slave to the stench
To the burning food in the kitchen ‘cause mama dozed. The wench!
The fried chicken was crispy, black on the skin.
The yams from the can had to be baked again.
Out of my mouth curse words flew,
“Shit,” “Damn,” even a “Fuck you!”
Dad was no help outside or in here.
He was down in the basement sneaking a beer.
Had mama known she would have started bitching.
Anything to keep her out of the kitchen.
I wouldn’t have complained because she can’t cook
Not even a simple recipe out of a book.
I should be glad she slept as the crumbs I scraped
Stuck to the bottom of the baking plate.
Next year I vowed I would not be
Cooking a dinner for lazy people times three.
Cleaning up a mess that I didn’t start
Watching Thanksgiving go up in a fart.
Where is the man that crashed outside
To give me a bag of whatever got him high?
Where is my dad with the six pack
That gets him all bloated and loaded and fat?
Where is my sister with her lazy ass
To give me a hand with these scorched pans?
Where is my dog to lick the floor?
So I don’t have to sweep and mop any more.
If this were Christmas I’d run away
Hiding in the back of Santa Claus’ sleigh.
Instead it’s Thanksgiving, my favorite holiday no doubt.
But I swear next year we’re ordering take out!