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by Shaara
Rated: ASR · Poetry · Family · #910644
Thanksgiving feast at my house is more like catching missiles.
This is fictitious, of course.

But use your imagination. The "author" says:

Thanksgiving feast at my house is more like catching missiles.

This was written for:
The Writer's Cramp  (13+)
Write the best STORY OR POEM in 24 hours and win 10K GPs!
#333655 by Sophy
Prompt: Thanksgiving dinner a la poetry


Flying Mashed Potatoes and Dressing

I was ready to cut with my two long knives,
So I blessed my family, my nine loving wives,
Thankful each mate was so strong and able,
As we all sat down at our Thanksgiving table.

We smiled at each other, as I lifted each knife.
That's when wife six launched into strife.
I put down my tools and blessed my wives again,
Urging gratitude for our big, brown hen.

Shamed-faced, they bowed as I talked about sin,
And none dared to mention my sweet wife, Gwyn,
For she, don't you see, was new to the troop,
And they all resented adding her to our group.

Gwyn sat beside me with a shy, kindly smile,
But she'd already exposed inner jealous bile,
And I was tired after that long, white aisle
Where I'd joined this newest sweetie to our domicile.

Again I gathered up the knives and started to carve.
"I cooked the turkey. Without me, you'd starve."
"Not so," cried wives two, three, and eight.
I glanced at my watch and said, "It's getting late."

So they stilled and admired as I sliced up our bird.
"You burned the pies," three wives, I overheard.
They erupted with biscuits flown everywhere,
Followed then by potatoes and olives in the air.

There's little thanks given when a fight breaks out.
Thus I take my Tums and tune out every shout.
Rockwell painted pictures, but I would never dare,
For there's no pretty setting when missiles are the fare.

I grabbed me a leg and gnawed it in my chair,
As I waited for the chaos to simmer back to glares.
My new wife, Gwyn, soon bopped Betty Lou,
Just as wife number two dumped pie on Carrie Sue.

I finished up the turkey and caught a flying yam,
Fixed myself a biscuit when Dorothy tossed the jam.
A second pumpkin pie ended across the room.
I ate a goodly portion by cleaning up the loom.

Formal meals can really bring on shades of gloom.
Though some enjoy such feasts, or so I would assume.
But with nine sweet wives, I end up feeling queasy.
Compared to my household, the Pilgrims had it easy.



P.S. I've already been asked about the kids; the man's sterile.

P.P.S. Don't despair, he is certain that wife ten will even out the family
and settle down the turmoil.

(He already has her picked out, too.)



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