To My Coy Hostess

Had we but world enough time,
This coyness, fair cook, were no crime.
We would greet and welcome each guest,
Mingle, chat, point out that nice vest.
Each relative from your mother’s side
Shouldst rejoice at the spread, smiles wide.
And I would spare no thought for the feast,
No focus on the pie, not in the least.
We would relish each float in the show,
Tall as skyscrapers, and even more slow.
An hundred years should go to praise
This one of many Thanksgiving Days;
Fifty at least should go to swoon
O’er the potatoes, white as the moon;
Twenty more for all stuffing and sauce;
Another ten to mourn the home team’s loss;
We would spend the entire evening
Gazing in wonder before eating.
For, hostess, you deserve this state,
Nor would I enjoy at lower rate.

But at our backs we can hear
Christmas’ sleigh bells drawing near;
The next season before us lies
Twinkling in the children’s eyes.
This day’s meal shall no more be found;
Nor, in thy thankful speech, shall sound
Thy echoing song; then worms shall try
That long preserved turkey and pie,
And thy quaint dinner turn to dust,
And into the trash all that crust;
The dump’s a fine and distant tomb,
But none, I think, do there consume.

Now therefore, while the tasty food
Sits on the table waiting to be chewed,
And while thy guests, so polite,
Attend thy party for just one night,
Now let us feast while we may,
Like our forefathers back in the day,
Rather at once our meal devour
Than languish through this unending hour.
Let us use all our strength and gumption
To make haste in this vast consumption,
And truly give thanks for all that’s made,
Giving up this tiresome, coy charade:
Thus, though we cannot make this night last,
We will do all we can not to fast.

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