I know I’m just a spud , with my eyes I can see
Just what Thanksgiving is not suppose to be.
I am set aside till it’s my cooking time,
Dad is complaining , I cost more than a dime.
The turkey sure comes from the store quite bare.
Mom grumbles that it takes so much care.
The dried bread will be mixed with spices and eggs.
She will stuff it up tight, And tie up it’s legs.
Vegetables are chopped and cooked just right,
Then placed by the pies , baked late last night.
Cranberry sauce was chilled in a turkey shaped mold, Junior is whinning,
that is much too cold.
Each one seemed to do their parts,
But OH MY! where are their hearts?
I a lowly spud have but one special wish,
PLEASE each one thank GOD , before you pick up my dish.
— By Carolyn Vasas
Mundy’s Corner, PA ,USA