‘Twas the week ere Thanksgiving, and all through the shop,
Assemblers are frenzied, the rush jobs don’t stop.
But the phones are all silent, there’s not even a whop,
Of a desk phone a’ringing or email incoming,
So I’m cleaning my desk of the year’s paperwork gloaming.

And it’s Friday, at the end of a busy week’s labors,
With sun shining brightly on the roofs of the neighbors,
And we all wait impatiently for five o’clock’s savior,
That homeward we may wend us to home fires burning
And pre-holliday’s prep work, with kitchens a stirring.

So come thou now quickly, the closing bell’s ringing,
and I’ll flee this paper pile, and clutter thats brimming,
There’s naught that’s as empty as the week ere Thanksgiving.
For next week’s a short one, with truncated days,
Then we’re off for a break, or to hit the roadways.