There’s doins down in Lafayette
Time for some has beans
No chardonnay in CenLa
No lover in New Orleans
Friday growing older
Rains chasing the sun across the day
Only 80 minutes to a Wilbry sunset—
What will the neighbors say?
Need to hear a Weasel solo
Pierce another load of complacence
Need to find something real
To make any of this make sense
Sidewalks in the glen crest—
Where will the trees go?
Are you still drinking bad red wine?
Ha! Wouldn’t you like to know?
There’s something at the Artmosphere
And at the RocknBowl club too
Can you teach me to be discerning:
So, why is the sky so blue?
A catastrophe of old goslings
Came sauntering on by
Hunting perhaps some pumpkin
Or, maybe yet, a little pecan pie
A horrendous howl of honking
Sliced thru the early morning’s fog
Perturbing the pigs and piglets
Of our farmers: Mr. and Mrs. B. Hogg
Seems our geese were quite giddy
Having been passed over for the block;
So, Thanksgiving would could be grand
For our fancy pastry-chasing flock
Peering perkily from yon copse,
Sally Gossamer Wingstep did risk a look
At the scene of gosling and farm
That rested askew beside the country brook
The winds nappered around from the North
Painting trees and cheeks in orange and red;
Our woodland fairie was on a mission
Having come in place of her ill cousin instead
Beyond the span of the Hoggs’ Farm
A fig tree grew splendid, round, and high
With just the right, rich and sweet fruit
To go in the Queen’s Holiday Figgerry Pie
Sally soared high up the loaded boughs
Selecting the most succulent figs to bag;
Thence to return to the Queen’s Kitchen—
Now weighed sore down, causing her flight to badly sag!
Overloaded Sally collapsed just past the copse;
The goslings saw, then quick-wobbled over to assist;
Flapping wings, cheery honking, and madness
Cut thru the thick new holiday’s swirling mist
Fairie and catastrophe arrived in a tumble;
Hooray, the figs to cook were delivered!
A freshened wind rolled thru the trees
Sending leaves reddening and beshivered
Sally asked how could she ever thank them
As they’d helped finish her mission on the fly—
And there on the morrow, our heroic of goslings
Munched on some of her Majesty’s Best Pumpkin Pie!
Happy Thanksgiving! Don’t forget to have some pie!
Met by the delighted cackle of a neighbor’s babe.
Come Inside…Come Inside…Come Inside—
There’s no shelter ‘neath that old lawn astrolabe.
O, the fantastic turns of waves of rain,
While its grumble of thunder shakes our lives.
Hurry Home…Hurry Home…Hurry Home—
To your children, and husbands, and wives.
The trees bend and lift,
To catch every little thrown drop of rain.
Shut the Door…Shut the Door…Shut the door—
Before we soak the atrium again.
Yet the gutters riot run full still.
Ca Caw…Ca Caw…Ca Caw—
Calls from the elm at the top of the hill.