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A Post-Thanksgiving Day Poem

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"You can put your boots in the oven. But that don't make 'em biscuits!" goes the old Texas saying.

Will they be saying that when they get a chance to secede from the union? Do secessionists know that in this event, they would get to pay taxes to the state which they don't have to pay now?

Let's take it easy today so there is this post-Thanksgiving poem:


T'was the night of Thanksgiving, but I just couldn't sleep.
I tried counting backwards, I tried counting sheep.
The left-overs beckoned -- the dark meat and white.
But I fought the temptation with all of my might.

Tossing and turning with anticipation, the thought of a snack became infatuation.
So I raced to the kitchen, flung open the door and gazed at the fridge, full of goodies galore.

I gobbled up turkey and cold buttered potatoes, pickles and carrots, beans and tomatoes.
I felt myself swelling, so plump and so round, 'til
All of a sudden, I rose off the ground.

I crashed through the ceiling floating into the sky with a mouthful of pudding and handful of pie.
But I managed to yell as I soared past the trees,
"Happy eating to all; pass the cranberries, please!

May your stuffing be tasty, may your turkey be
plump.
May your potatoes and gravy have nary a lump.
May your yams be delicious, may your pies take the prize.
May your Thanksgiving dinner stay off of your thighs.

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