Thanksgiving day, Uncle Dave was our guest
He reads the Progressive which makes him depressed
We asked Uncle Dave if he'd like to say grace,
A dark desolation crept over his face
"Thanks," he began as he gazed at his knife,
"To poor Mr. Turkey for living his life
All crowded and cramped in a great metal shed
Where life was a drag then they cut off his head

"Thanks," he went on, "for the grapes in my wine
Picked by sick women of seventy-nine
Scrambling all morning for bunch after bunch
Then brushing the pesticides off of their lunch .
Continuing, "I'd like to thank if you please
Our salad bowl hacked out of tropical trees
And for this mahogany table and chair
We thank all the jungles that used to be there .
For cream in our coffee and milk in our mugs,
We thank all the cows full of hormones and drugs
Whose calves are removed at a very young age
And force-fed as veal in a minuscule cage .
"Oh thanks for the furnace that heats up these rooms
And thanks for the rich fossil fuel it consumes
Corrupting the atmosphere ounce after ounce
But we're warm and toasty and that is what counts .
I'm grateful," he said, "for these clothes on my back
Lovely and comfy and cheap off the rack
Fashioned in warehouses noisy and cold
In China by seamstresses seven years old .

Sighed Uncle Dave, "though there's more to be told
The wine's getting warm and the bird's getting cold"
And with that he sat down as he mumbled again
"Thank you for everything, amen"
We felt so guilty when he was all through
It seemed there was one of two things we could do
Live without food, in the nude, in a cave,
Or next year have someone say grace besides Dave