The Nightmare Before Thanksgiving on Cranberry Street
by Beth LaBuff
'Twas the eve 'fore Thanksgiving on Cranberry Street,
Our cottage was brimming with victuals and sweets.
The pumpkin pies cooled, as had marshmallowed yams,
And raisin bread slices awaited plum jam.
The turkey was nestled all snug in its pan,
A five a.m. stuffing— accorded the plan.
The lists on the counter would free-up my head.
With tasks for each hour, I climbed into bed.
When out on the porch I heard clunkings and bams.
I ran out the doorway, then tripped on canned Spam!
Now what kind of prank had entangled my feet?
What lunacy lurked here on Cranberry Street?
For hundreds of cans lay in haphazard heaps,
Who sent this fool Spam? Am I still fast asleep?
Did Cranberry Street have a luncheon meat war?
I entered my cottage, securing the door.
Befuddled, I sat in my swivel desk chair,
I pondered the front porch; I whispered a prayer.
I switched on my laptop, my brain in a stew;
I thought to read emails for something to do.
Then what to my listening ears was THAT sound?
My inbox was flooding with emails— inbound.
More rapid than vultures, from whom and from where,
Converged on my inbox, left messages there.
Prolific as rabbits, more forthcoming mail
Assaulted my thinking—I feared to exhale.
These emails could cause such outlandish fixations—
Proposing that Spam be the pride of our nation!
Suggestions: That canned Spam would pair well with tea break,
At Christmas time— canned Spam in lieu of a fruitcake.
Have roasted stuffed Spam served on Thanksgiving Day,
Tie ribbons on Spam and attach to bouquets.
Then flanking my email were ads from cafés.
Each advertised dishes like Spam Fudge Parfaits,
And touted the flavor of Simmered Spam Stew,
Or boasted the glories of Cubed Spam Fondue.
While haunted by roasts of our Thanksgivings past,
Now, luncheon meat cans on my porch had amassed.
I feared for tomorrow, for our turkey meat.
Such strange things had happened on Cranberry Street.
I may eat Spam pudding and suffer this scheme,
I may add some Spam to my coffee with cream.
I may grill Spam steaks on the Fourth of July,
But don't dump your Spam in my sweet pumpkin pie.
I swiveled my swivel chair, lost deep in thought.
This whole Spam fiasco had left me distraught.
It rested on me, so I must find a way—
I couldn't let Spam be the rule of the day.
And there, a solution for streets out-of-kilter,
Alleging a swift comprehensive spam filter.
I added my addresses—email and house,
Then dispatched it posthaste with a click of my mouse.
I'll never know how that this task was completed—
But all the Spam cans on my porch were deleted.
The filter-fix helped purge our porch of Spam meat—
Put life back to normal on Cranberry Street.
—with apologies to Clement C. Moore, Dr. Seuss, and Hormel—
Spam © Hormel Foods LLC
© Beth LaBuff -- 2011
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