Let's give thanks this isn't us

Hi. I'm so sorry about last week. It was Canadian thanksgiving on Monday so I had to help get ready for all my relatives. I'm back though with my thanksgiving post. I know it's late, but I couldn't resist. Go scour mother goose readers, because you probably read it wrong.

   Thanksgiving dinner that year was rather awkward. The entire family had come together but Peters seat was noticeably empty. His wife had come but was sitting alone off to the side, still unused to people after her solitary confinement. Needless to say, they served Apple pie rather than pumpkin. There were so many children running around that tea cups smashed and shattered this way and the teapot whistled all night long. Poor Vivian Galosh sat, abandoned in the corner thanks to the pervading odor of feet that surrounded her. Finally, grandmother Hubbard called them all to the table. Her basset hound lurked in the corner, gnawing on a  milk bone(he had no teeth anymore, much like grandmother herself).
   At the children's table, miss Muffet fed the baby mush on a spoon while all the little Galoshes squabbled over who had to sit next to her. Jack and Jill sat at the adult table to accommodate casts and bandages. The prayer was said and the vegetables were brought out first. They were passed around, casually skipping the man rocking back and forth humming 'The Wheels on the Bus'. Finally, the goose was brought out. Jack burst out crying to see it, crying for his mother. Or possibly calling the goose mother? They blamed his head injury and finished the meal amicably, if stiffly. Finally, everyone was thrilled to realize that it was eight'oclock and they had a whole two moths until they had to do this again.