'Twas Thanksgiving Eve, and all through the joint
KARnies sat in our undies, wondering "what is the point?"
The Anal Kid sat, drinking gin in his shorts,
while Xerxes lit farts, with thund'rous reports.
Iron Matron cursed fate as she huffed on her glue,
(and the last that I checked, so was Fleissmeyer, too).
And Foot in his wifebeater prowled the office's halls
cursing our fortunes and scratching his balls.
When out in the parking lot burst forth a noise
(and not of the stinky kind Xerxes enjoys...)
Away to the door we all ran, trudged and crawled,
slipped open the deadbolt and leaned on the wall.
Foot muttered "it's probably some addle-brained punk..."
when something appear'd thru the miasmical funk.
It opened our minds, like coffee stained folders;
A "Light-Worker", being carried on his followers' shoulders.
A dashing young fellow, so carefree it seems,
to be, yet, the vessel of all of our dreams.
And as we rubbed our eyes, and as Learned Foot groused
they came to us quicker than Charlie Sheen running to a Bangkok whorehouse.
"Now Matron! Now Foot! Now Alfredo the Head!
Now Fleisshammer, and...is that V-Toe'd guy dead?...
...it matters not. Tag it and bag it. Just screw it.
It's the season of thanks - so get out and do it!"
Like the hangover dissolving before Ibuprofin
we stirred from our funk, and desisted our loafin'
and to the Light Worker, Foot peevishly went,
looked him in the eye and enounced "Go get bent.
Be thankful for what? Our cash flow's molasses!
And my do-nothing "staff?" They're all just jackasses!"
And there, they both stood, like gunfighters of yore
(except gunfights have shooting, and this was a snore)
as Bill shuffled his feet, and Anal Kid grumbled
and back in rest room, Tucci yelled, cursed and stumbled,
the Light Worker appraised us, hung-over and wan,
and shook his head with disgust, and began:
"Good people - and yes, even all of you guys,
have much to be thankful for! Open your eyes!
There beer! Baseball! Turkey and bacon!
And we've not let institutionalized extragovernmental takin's!
You're healthy! OK - wealthy, wise, not so much,
but it's not a day for miracles, as such.
Anyway - give thanks for the things that you've got!"
Matron: "But what of the things we have not?"
The Light Worker: "Matron, you needn't be snotty.
If nothing else, thank God that you're not like..."
JOE TUCCI: "What? No ending for the poem?"
THE HEAD OF ALFREDO GARCIA: "I got nothing, man. I'm sorry".
LEARNED FOOT: "That's it? All that writing, and you can't find one last damn word?"
THE HEAD OF ALFREDO GARCIA: "Nope. I'm out. Total writer's block."
LEARNED FOOT: "Crap. Well, see you all on Monday".