They don’t make Easter any more
The way they did when I was four

My father wears a jacket and tie
My mother too and so do I

My auntie sings Blue Bayou
Under the carport with cousin Lou

At my elbow are the beets
Next to them are grandpa’s meats

The elk he shot right in the keister
Which elicits a tremor from my sister

My mother runs to get a bucket
In case my sister has to chuck it

I wonder why the lightbulb’s dim
And why the milk tastes like cinnamon

Whether Jesus had such an Easter
Including a nauseated sister

Whether elk are wild in Jerusalem
And if their milk tastes like cinnamon

Whether lightbulbs gave Joseph fits
Whether Mary sang Roy Orbison hits

Whether women wore clip on ties
And where they parked their cars at night

We bow our heads to save us sinners
Then tuck into our gamy dinner

Ahh, they don’t make Easters any more
Like when my sister heaved on the floor