T’was the night before Christmas, and all through the flat,
Three creatures were giggling and chewing the fat.
I looked in our oven, hot steam pouring out,
“Still don’t know what it is,” I said in a shout.
“Be it chicken or goose or a fancy French bird
As long as it doesn’t come out tasting like turd!”
In the shop that morning, birds were piled together.
Hard to tell bird from bird, or feather from feather
The labels, no help, all said the same things
“Volaille,” or “fowl,” or “I dunno; it’s got wings.”
By feast time, all agreed: it was of no matter.
All that we wanted was food on a platter.
Veggies and taters and a bird we all chewed,
With grins on our faces, we devoured our food.
The coup de grace came next, our dear dinner ended
A pumpkin pie so scrumptious, I’ll call it splendid.
Lifting a glass of impromptu punch,
“Merry Christmas, you guys, I love you a bunch.”
And so ends the story, the odd bird I leave,
To live on in infamy on the best Christmas Eve.
