Another of my Dad's favourite stories.
And, who knows . . . maybe it happened . . .?
They’d been married one week, plus a day,
Sylvester and his good wife, May.
And May thought she should mark the date,
With something special for her mate.
A chicken dinner was her plan
She dug out pot and frying pan,
Consulted her mom’s recipes,
For gastronomic ecstasies.
All afternoon, she cooked and stirred,
By her love for her Sylvester, spurred,
At last she had the table set,
With goodies from her kitchenette.
She heard his step upon the stair,
And quickly pulled him to his chair,
He saw the things that she had done
And gently hugged his Honey-bun.
They ate enthusiastically,
Of fluffy spuds and buttered peas,
And other dishes by the score,
Each one, another to adore.
But when the crowning dish arrived,
So very prettily contrived,
He carved, and laid the pieces down,
And poured out fine, rich gravy; brown.
Then the anticipated taste,
And, suddenly, his smile displaced.
“My dear,” he said, with quite a sniff,
“What did you stuff the chicken with?”
She smiled upon him brilliantly,
Then sighed and answered blissfully,
“That part, I didn’t have to follow,
For the chicken wasn’t hollow!”