From Rude Rural Rhymes by Bob Adams, New York: The Macmillan Company; 1925; pp. 190-191.
DINNER’S READY
Awake my muse, get going some;
For good Thanksgiving time has come,
With foods that please the human tum.
How dear to my heart is the Thanksgiving bird
When segregated from the herd
And served upon a platter fair
With drumsticks stuck up in the air.
For us he pipped his speckled shell
And wandered over hill and dell.
He hunted worms, he gulped them down;
He made good meat both white and brown.
For us the sprightly punkin vines
Broke through the corn rows’ stiffer lines,
Set orange fruit with golden meat
And made pie-filling rich and sweet.
For us the biddies, white and red,
Laid eggs in barn, garage and shed,
While cows ate dock and other greens
To fill their milk with vitamines.
I pity those dyspeptic jays
With extra careful eating ways
Who do not like Thanksgiving days,
[191]
But hail with joy the lad who’s able
To stretch his feet beneath the table,
And lodged in that strategic place
Feed double rations to his face.