It's better to be a turkey today,
than yesterday.
These are the thoughts,
running randomly through my head,
as I snap on the rubber gloves,
preparing to go deep,
got a sixty-nine pound-er this year at Costco,
perfect holy cavity cathedral of god,
it's too bad, we don't get to see the o-face,
this birds gonna love this Crisco slinging'
swashbucklin', leather strappin' bronco of gay man.
This year, I had a different plan.
Out with the bread crumbs, the pastry flakes,
the carrots, the mushrooms, the olives,
the celery stalks, the I shouldn't have paired
the cranberries with pine nuts and squash surprise,
the,
Oh SNAP!
Dyno-mite, baby- is GLUTEN-FREE!
This will be the practical, penultimate, poignant moment,
of instant perfection, the oh-my-god,
of turkey day pent-up temper-tantrics.
This is my ode,
to a bird that refuses to masticate and moisturize,
requiring a dearth of chemicals, fats,
cologne, and pretty dresses to at least
get it to prom night,
before basting the hell out of it,
promising, promising,
heaven is only a few hours away,
just save those drippings honey,
cause you're gonna need them,
when you get to those pearly porcelain white platter,
splattering on the smock gates,
you think Peter likes his Turkey dry?
he too serves his guests with a wham-bam-thank-you-mam,
brown, crispy, and rosemary babi-fied slam
while choking the beast,
in it's own butter,
keep it moist,
cackles the screaming,
pornographic crazy driven devil of a man,
that is NOT going to be me.
Not me this year, not me.
Not taking part in that fetish-filled festivity of flesh.
Nothings gonna be crazy about this idea.
Today, the bird of all birds, the divine mother of feathers,
finds glory, hallelujah,
in a resounding chorus of YES!
this is the A-men, to end your Gloria's, your Excelsious Deo's,
your Hit-This-Baby-One-More-Time with your Jiggling-Cocoa-Puffs-Get-Me-To-The-Church-On-Time-Pop-Over's!
Today, I take back the table for my own!
Today, I cry,
This is the salt of my earth,
This is the rise of my bread,
This is the day I ripens my peach blossoming panty preserves,
This is the day.
I will not go quietly into this night,
I will not surrender these oven mitts without a fight,
I will not...
now it says here to tie the strings in a criss-cross pattern,
so the legs are perpendicular pointing to the ceiling, begin,
by rolling the turkey over, and placing him gently on his back...
who wrote this shit,
f- this, six hour love-fest,
I got a buck-o-five of freedom
that says, this one's gonna be a quickie,
now where did I put that gallon sized potato gun,
it's time to Katy Perry this bird into the sky.
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