A decision, that is twelve years old,
makes it’s break; thus, we return so bold
to a happier scene, where Ma will chop,
those greens, to put them all in a pot.
Where they will simmer, the steam will rise,
a mist; to us, that will never lie,
tend to the meat, kind father mine,
and I’ll be careful, in decanting wine.
Dear Charles, please help set the table,
so that you can add, to our joyous fable,
in tasting, Dan and Noah, we’ll trust,
to the little man; some bread, but, no crust.
We then mix the sauce, it will not swim,
it will be rich and thick, thus not trim,
for this is our reunion, our bated treat,
to bring division to its end, complete.
The chatter dies, replaced by chomping,
where “umms”, become our corresponding,
adorned with metallic percussive beats,
that thankfully glide, over the plates.
Resplendently empty, the china is now,
it’s time to clean up, and retire to couch,
to smile, and to come up with this saying,
how lucky we are to be “roasting kin!”