The gravy boat tips, oh, liquid doom!
A satin brown wave floods the dining room.
Uncle Jeff, fork poised in mid air,
watches mashed potatoes meet despair.
Cranberry sauce quivers, parsnips take flight,
Aunt Marge’s shriek echoes into the night.
The tablecloth blooms a Jackson Pollock mess,
carrots sink like ships, celery drifts in distress.
Grandma lunges for bread in a heroic crusade,
yet the roll pirouettes and plunges in the cascade.
Dad wipes his reindeer tie, grimace and sigh:
“It’s ultra chic chaos: au jus haute cuisine, my guy.”
The dog licks the carnage: eyes wide with delight,
silverware wrestles, potatoes take flight.
Stuffing swirls in a gravy whirlpool,
my holiday dinner has lost all rule.
And yet – oh, yet – we laugh.
Because gravy doesn’t just dress, it reigns.
It claims the table in its sticky domain,
brown rivers carving memory in napkins unstained.
Next year we vow: “We’ll tip with care.”
The gravy boat winks, unaware.
Forks poised, hearts ready, we await the reprise:
the next apocalypse, brown sauced surprise.
INSTANT NOODLES 