T’is the night before Thanksgiving, and all through the house,
The Bad Dwarfs are lurking — Grump, Grumble, and Grouse.
The kids are all hyper, the dog is in hiding,
Guilt-ridden and banished from pumpkin pie swiping.

I’m sitting here, trying to type to the beat
of the metronome by Dad on the piano seat.
“And ONE-two-three, FOUR-five-six” I urge him to play,
While he manfully tunes out each word that I say.

Then, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
the clock that chimes eight … the sight brings a tear.
It’s bedtime for wee ones and lessons for him,
the realization makes me not a bit grim.

The pies are a’chilling, the bird is at rest,
Cranberries are jelling, the table well-dressed.
My family will head out to morningtime Mass,
and come back to dig in to the festive repast.

So how did those Bad Dwarfs get in to the place?
How dare they show up, take Gratitude’s space?
Now, Grumpy; now Snarky; now Lonely and Sad;
Hey, Ugly; say, Tired, Disgusted and Mad …

In this season of thankfulness, why are you here?
What gives you the right to mess with my good cheer?
“You called us,” they told me. “You made us a place
at your Thanksgiving table, in your thoughts and your face.”

Oh, dear. I need a new guest list, and fast
Get Peace, Love, and Joy to this festive repast!
Make us grateful, dear Lord, even for the great pains,
for those difficult dwarfs, for the sorrows unnamed.

Ours is no Norman Rockwell-type tableau.
The cracks and dustbunnies are sure bound to show.
Still we offer to You our thanksgiving, sincere,
Secure in Your unfailing kindness each year.

Come, ye thankful people, come,
Raise the song of harvest home.
All are safely gathered in,
e’re the winter storms begin.

God our maker doth provide
All our wants to be supplied.
Come, ye thankful people, come.
Raise the song of harvest home.