Pass the butter, hand the bread
Don’t be dramatic — nobody is dead
Carve the turkey, open the booze
But switch the channel if it’s news.
Sprinkle the pepper, pour the sauce
Dried by the smoke of a burning cross
Just because the flames have been smothered for years
Does not mean we don’t feel the soot in our tears
A man on a pedestal flaunts his crown
Reduces an empire to a ghost town.
We apparently love him — it’s been reported
A toast to that, before we get deported
Close the curtains, God, what a racket
That officer’s gun is not in his jacket.
Just another man screaming for his life
Grab the remote, mute his strife
So what if that burger is dipped in car grease?
Can’t someone let us just eat in peace?
When it’ll be us, just like everyone said,
Someone else shall pass the butter, hand the bread
I know that it’s difficult, that this will be hard
When the cranberries are sour and the turkey is charred
But to untangle the noose from this country of rope
Change the menu, bring out the hope
Kanchan Naik is a junior at The Quarry Lane School in Dublin and the Teen Poet Laureate for the City of Pleasanton. When she’s not doodling or writing poetry, she is most likely untangling her earphones or looking for something that happens to be — much like herself — lost.