‘Twas the day before Thanksgiving, and all through our home
things had been gone over with a fine-toothed comb.
The floors had been mopped, the toilets were cleaned
the booze was all stocked, and the ice was deep-freezed.
The turkey was prepped, the gravy homemade
the dishes were washed and on the table they lay.
While we hustled around, racing mad cap
the damn cats sat on the bed for their day-long nap.
When it was all done, and things settled down,
I popped open a bottle of Lake Louie ale, a fine maple brown.
Then down to the basement, to finish the night
next to the tying bench, to plan winter flies.
Lo and behold, something was dreadfully wrong,
I had no turkey feathers to tie the March Brown.
I was in despair, for how would I tie?
and it was then that I knew something was awry.
From above me there arose such a great clatter,
I sprang from the bench to see what was the matter.
Up the stairs I ran right to the living room,
and watched a giant turkey slide down the chimney flue.
I blinked in amazement, visibly stunned,
thinking that brown ale packed one helluva punch.
With a twinkling eye, the bird turned to me,
and shook his back end to loosen a feather or three.
He then took to the wing, back up the flue,
and was gone in not more than a moment or two.
But I heard him gobble-gobble, as he flew out of sight,
“Happy Thanksgiving to all, and may you now tie all night!”