The old farmhouse exuded glee
While youth and elders strategized
Their Christmas celebration.
The merriment that overflowed
Infected fowl and beast.
In the barnyard peace ensued
And acrimony creased.
Except that is, one envious pig
Got up his porker dander
When he observed the peacock strut
Of one illustrious gander.
The gander overheard the cook,
Whose silvered-tongue was loose,
That if he plumped-up, he'd become
This seasons Christmas goose.
The whole farmhouse, both young and old,
At once began to pander,
Feeding this and bits of that
To fatten up the gander.
To be the Christmas goose MUST BE
The wish of every gosling.
For every inch his waistline grew,
More lustrous grew his goose dream.
With each applause and patted-back
And lofty gander praise,
The pig's hate exponentially grew
For all the gander's ways.
Pig quipped, to put him in his place,
"They're going to cook your goose."
Then added, while his nose-ring bobbed,
"You'll simmer in your juice."
And then to emphasize his point
They waddled to a window.
From underneath they overheard
The children's voices flow.
With sing-song voice they patty-caked
A chant that made him shiver.
"Pluck the fowl, discard the tail,
Take out his goosey-liver."
"Add peppercorns, season to taste,
Then truss him up with kite string.
Cook will roast the Christmas goose that's
Crammed with chestnut stuffing."
Then goose-bumps on the gander flared.
His face grew flushed, then paled.
A plan began to formulate
So he'd not be de-tailed.
With not a moment left to spare,
He donned clothes from the clothesline.
When cook went out to dress the fowl,
He hid behind the grapevine.
The cook, with kids and jealous pig,
Searched far all o'er the place
What started as a hunting crew
Wound up a wild-goose chase.
With nary a gander sighting
Of hide, nor hair or feather,
Cook then whipped up a Plan B
The children thought 'twas clever.
The gander near the window crept,
When deemed the coast was clear.
The children's chant a second verse?
Was music to his ears.
"Green-bean casserole, candied yams,
Pumpkin pie, and custard.
We'll pig out on Christmas ham
That's spiced with cloves and mustard."
Copyright Beth LaBuff 2015
Before Beth LaBuff and her husband, Tilman, moved to the high desert of Arizona, she lived most of her life surrounded by the cornfields of Adair County, Iowa.
Article Source: http://www.faithwriters.com
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Beth, I am a friend of your mom's and she read one of your poems at the Primetime Connection luncheon. It was grand and I just read the Christmas Goose......you are so talented and I really enjoy your work. Thanks.
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