‘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!

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