At half-past noon, Mr. Hawthorne looked
Down to the Earth, so miraculously beautiful.
A sigh of relief followed by a singular stomp,
For the table was clear.
A roar of laughter induced by his weakness
Soon after commenced.
Condemned to Hell may he have been,
Naught to be cared for by himself.
At twenty-five minutes into three, Mr. Hawthorne looked
Evidently frightened by his weaning sanity,
Down to the Earth, where could be its fruit?
An infinite number on the clock, he thought in vain.
Where could it be? Called him in a commanding manner.
And then came a blissful deep breath,
The sweet smell of a turkey, stomping on the ground;
At fifty-seven seconds before midnight, Mr. Hawthorne
So ridiculously bound by gluttony,
Ravished the lavish spread before him.
idiot's story 