You Take the Pilgrims, Just Give Me the Progress

Across the hills to Grandma’s house,
For most a fond tradition,
Has meant a yearly windfall to
Our family physician;

If we gave thanks before the meal
We would have just been bluffing;
We always gave thanks after that
We’d lived through Grandma’s stuffing;

Her turkeys ran for miles before
Deciding to surrender,
And all their extra exercise
At no time made them tender;

Though old wood stoves are colorful,
Hers smoked like Cuba’s navy,
While everything inside stayed cold,
From brandy sauce to gravy;

But this year Grandma’s meal, we hope,
Will leave us all ecstatic;
We’ve bought a frozen bird and made
Her kitchen automatic;

All family members paid their share
At once without excuses —
A tribute to our matriarch
And our digestive juices.