'Twas Xmas day and all was still, the clan had gathered for their fill having opened presents one and all, their stomachs beckoned to the call of ham and nuts and tails of cray, the “young bloke” caught at Thompson's bay, of Salmon smoked and prawns so sweet, all of which could not compete with the Xmas feast no less they’d settle, than the turkey in the Weber Kettle So carefully they dressed the bird with seasoned stuffing (so I heard ), They laid it over foil tray, put on the lid and walked away, The time then came to feed the starved, but not before the bird was carved The patriarch would do the job , He’d cut the bird and feed the mob But as he carefully sliced the fowl, his smiling face turned to a scowl The blood raced to his face so red and screamed “This flamin’ things not dead!” “What will we do!” the guests all cried, “no turkey on this Christmas tide? No wishbone tussle?, No parsons nose?, what will we eat do you suppose”? Moving in to quell the riot, the patriarch said Hush, be quiet, It seems we’ll have to do it tough and just eat all the “other stuff” But time heals all or so it’s said, and the hours slowly moved ahead The Turkey cooked by end of day, just as the guests went on their way They gave their friends a parting gift, as Taxis pulled up for their lift So Christmas wasn’t such a drag - they got turkey in a ”doggy bag”
© John Miller