Oh dear, I fear, T'was ever such when feasting time comes round,
the Fatted-Calf, (or Turkey-Cock) is plucked from his home ground.
Beers are brewed, wines laid down, and Honey-Meads fermented,
by many a cup, or glass, or horn will friendships be cemented.
But we must await the proper date, 'ere festive fare is tasted,
now don't despair, worry, or care, nary a crumb will be wasted.