The gourd tradition on Thanksgiving
was passed down from dead to living.
Gourds were always on the table,
in the hut, the barn, the stable.
The fourth magi brought a gourd,
never made it to the lord.
Gourds have a great history.
Why is still a mystery.
Maybe when the gourds are gone
comes a time when swords are drawn.
But when there are gourds aplenty,
we should think of twenty-twenty.
Seen our share of gourds with bumps,
elongated humpty humps,
gourds with stripes and pumpkins blue,
twisted gourds from Bonzai Two.
Gourds in every market stand,
on the beaches, in the sand.
Gourds with altered DNA.
Some can even speak, they say.
“No more gourds,” we scream to God.
“They’re morphing into something odd.”
Arisen in the street, new lords,
dogma spouting angry gourds.
“You’ll not squash us any more!
We’re not the gourds we were before.”