A Thanksgiving Day For The Politically Secure

[goldenponderbob]

Here's A little poem to spice up your turkey day.

"Uncle Dave's Grace", by Peter Berryman,

Thanksgiving day, Uncle Dave was our guest,
He reads the Progressive which makes him depressed.
We asked Uncle Dave if he'd like to say grace,
A dark desolation crept over his face.

"Thanks," he began as he gazed at his knife,
"To poor Mr. Turkey for living his life.
All crowded and cramped in a great metal shed,
Where life was a drag then they cut off his head".

"Thanks," he went on, "for the grapes in our wine,
Picked by sick women of seventy-nine.
Scrambling all morning for bunch after bunch,
While brushing the pesticides off of their lunch".

And thanks for the stuffing heaped on my fork,
Shiny with sausage descended from pork.
I think of the trucks full of pigs that I see,
And can't help but wonder what they think of me.

Continuing, "I'd like to thank if you please,
Our salad bowl hacked out of tropical trees.
And for this mahogany table and chair,
Let us thank the rainforests that used to be there.

For cream in our coffee and milk in our mugs,
Let us thank all the cows full of hormones and drugs.
Whose calves are removed at a very young age,
And force-fed as veal in a minuscule cage.

"Oh thanks for the furnace that heats up our rooms,
And thanks for the rich fossil fuel it consumes.
Corrupting the atmosphere ounce after ounce,
But we're warm and toasty and that is what counts.

I'm grateful," he said, "for the clothes on my back,
Lovely and comfy and cheap off the rack.
Fashioned in warehouses noisy and cold,
In China by seamstresses seven years old.

"And thanks for the silverware setting that shines,
In memory of miners who died in the mines.
Worn down by the shoveling of tailings in piles,
Whose runoff destroys all the rivers for miles.

Let us thank the reactors for our chandelier,
Although the plutonium won't disappear.
For hundreds of decades it still will be there,
But a few more Chernobyls and who's gonna care?"

Sighed Uncle Dave, "though there's more to be told,
The wine's getting warm and the bird's getting cold".
And with that he sat down as he mumbled again,
"Thank you for everything, amen".

We felt so guilty when he was all thru,
It seemed there was one of two things we could do.
Live without food, in the nude, in a cave,
Or next year have someone say grace besides Dave.

Happy Thanksgiving,
goldenponderbob