I love to watch the bulging balloons go floating by on Thanksgiving Day,
Filled with gas and bloated it’s hard to guess how much they must weigh.
It’s a tradition at our house to watch them parade as they go bounding by,
Look at that one wobble as he makes his way for a piece of pumpkin pie.
But all too soon the consumption parade comes to a crashing end,
As to the couches to watch the game the balloons will sleepily descend.
And into the clear blue November sky each of them dreamily soars,
The heights to which they rise are measured by the timber of their snores.
And when they awake an invisible rope guides them as if by fate,
To the microwave to heat up a second helping before it gets too late.
This time of year the only way they know that it’s time to stop,
Is when they hear an unnerving sound as one of them goes pop.