‘Twas in early December, two-thousand-and-nine,
Restauranteers were rushing, to meet their deadlines;
The placemats were ordered in gold, green, and red,
In hopes that our customers soon inward tread;
The pumpkin ordered with spice to accent,
While gooey pie filling began to torment;
And traveling children tucked away into cribs,
Had just settled down after dining with bibs,
When down in the kitchen arose such a clatter,
Chefs mashing potatoes and whipping up batter.
Down to the kitchen I ran with a roaster,
Not forgetting to grab bright festive coasters.
For into the punch bowl pour holiday drinks,
Atop new table covers that never will shrink,
So into the oven we popped in our feast,
And into the air an enticing scent released,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But eight chafing dishes full of holiday cheer.
With stainless steel tongs and endless chafing fuel,
I knew in a moment our guests soon would drool.
Fresh apple pie, relish, ham, rolls, and the fixin’s,
Ended the day, with our guests intermixing.