Down by the Murray River's banks
I rest and send our giver Thanks.
Oh do I miss that Yankee feast
the turkey or a different beast
up on the table bending slightly
with young ones, and those oldies, sprightly
all fiddling in anticipation
to start the party of this nation.
There's cranberry with real berries
and on the server various sherries,
those roast potatoes look devine
red cabbage, cole slaw, shredded fine,
and salad with a thousand colours
and suddenly the old man hollers
let's get this show now on the road
I always felt that one small ode
should have been written long ago
the people love Thanksgiving so.
And even though the very thought
of thanking Him, the one who brought
those riches to the common man
is not apparent but one can
detect that all the people are
aware and grateful, from afar
they know who is their real Master
who keeps them from abject disaster
so when at last the glass is raised
it signifies that God be praised.
As long as I'm among the living
I'll miss American Thanksgiving.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem