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Sun on crinkled golden leaves

The grass is lemon-yellow

The sky is pure blue

I can’t believe it is November

October hid and dashed away

Thanksgiving will soon make its way to the table

And the pilgrims will carve up turkeys with axes

And one of them might get a little crazy

Someone spiked his cranberry juice

And Pilgrim No. 1 hollers a death cry

Like some crazed Capitol Hill crasher

And Bill Bixby is sitting out in the woods

He senses something is going terribly wrong

Screaming pilgrims come streaming out of the picturesque white farmhouse

Pilgrim No. 1 in chase

Hollering like a madman with axe overhead

Then an arrow pierces his chest

Right at the point of his heart

A Native American on a hill

Has strung his bow and fired

And the pilgrims stop running and worship him

And he looks down upon them and speaks

“Go back to where you came from.”