Fete Feast, Auto de Fe

It was the day of St. Anthony’s feast, in the house of the holy, turkey was served,

With gravy, sweet gravy, above amber waves of grain, as if in rapture,

Not from a pulpit, but from a pew, arising, as arrows from a long bow,

None of that trimming the fat from a pigeon,

Or a hedgerow sparrow,

Or a flat tide, and with the turkey bird, or beast, sweet yellow and mellow,

Tobacco on to the mantle of a sweet mariner, as across the wide missouri, the Atlantic tossed and turned, for, assured, sweet little hedgerow sparrow, eating the dawn, the dawn’s early light, soars, an eager beaver eagle, carrying the bacon home, to be served on unleavened bread.