There once was a finicky ocelot,
Who all year long was cross a lot,
Except at Thanksgiving,
When he enjoyed living
And ate cranberry sauce a lot.~Ogden Nash
He, with so much left to do,
Such a gallant race to run,
What concern had he with you,
Silent Keeper of things done?
Tell us not that, wise and young,
Elsewhere he lives out his plan.
Our speech was sweetest to his tongue,
And his great gift was to be man.
Long and long shall we remember,
In our breasts his grave be made.
It shall never be December
Where so warm a heart is laid,
But in our saddest selves a sweet voice sing,
Recalling him, and Spring.
"On Active Service"
By Edith Wharton
There once was a finicky ocelot,
Who all year long was cross a lot,
Except at Thanksgiving,
When he enjoyed living
And ate cranberry sauce a lot.~Ogden Nash