Every year,
Each November,
We come together to feast,
We join together in massacre.
Potatoes mashed to a pulp,
Turkey fisted with soggy bread,
Later we stuff these in our faces,
But first express gratitude for the bird being pre-dead.
We may not have killed the bird,
But mutilate it with herbs and butter,
Massaged between its skin and muscle,
Slowly roasted then carved on a silver platter.
Dark meat or light meat,
Thigh or breast,
This bit is too bloody,
But we’ll eat the rest.
Once the turkey is picked apart,
Ravaged by civil vultures,
We begin to pick at each other,
It’s our nature, it’s in our culture.
Fueled by apple cider,
Doctored up with whiskey,
We throw jabs at each other,
Even Grandma gets bitchy.
The election,
The last bread roll,
An 18-year-old’s new tattoo.
Microaggressions,
The liberal agenda,
Running out of booze.
We pick and we pick,
Till the bones are clean,
Till manners turn mean,
Till the table is a crime scene.
We give thanks for the food,
We give thanks for family,
It’s the spirit of the holiday,
It incites pure insanity.
Today is a day of thanks,
It’s in the name,
Today is a bloodbath,
Let’s watch the game.
