[Intro — spoken, intimate] I went down for a bag of flour. Come back with a marching order. That’s how November started. [Verse 1] September had its windows wide, The leaves were green on either side. A plastic Santa winked at me From underneath an apple tree. Thanksgiving stood beside the gate And said, “You’re twenty weeks too late.” But somewhere down the hardware aisle, I heard a little jingle smile. [Verse 2] That night a root knocked at my door. A pumpkin rolled across the floor. He set his candle on my chair And warmed his hands that weren’t quite there. He said, “The Turkey swore to me He’d keep December past the trees. Now look what’s nesting in the corn.” A candy cane blew on a horn. [Chorus — stomping, gathering voices] Roll that orange moon downhill! Wake the dead behind the mill! You let December through the door— Now pass the pie. This means war! Raise the vines and let them run— November’s ours till Christmas comes! [Verse 3] We crossed the creek at half past three, A scarecrow walking next to me. He carried orders in his hat And stopped to ask which head was back. The Turkey met us on the rise, With gravy trembling in his eyes. “I held as long as I was able.” There sat an elf beneath his table. [Chorus — bigger, fiddle answering the vocal] Roll that orange moon downhill! Wake the dead behind the mill! You let December through the door— Now pass the pie. This means war! Raise the vines and let them run— November’s ours till Christmas comes! [Fiddle break — wild harvest dance] [Bridge — quieter, wondrous] The parade came floating through the wood. Its ropes hung loose. That wasn’t good. No hands below, no sky above— Just something shaped a bit like love. My mother called me in to eat. Dead leaves were sitting in my seat. They moved along and made me room. The mashed potatoes were in bloom. [Verse 4 — sly, gathering momentum] The Pumpkin climbed the carving board. The butter knife became his sword. “Black Friday, Christmas gets its turn. Till then, these little candles burn.” The Turkey bowed his naked head. “I keep the stuffing?” “Yes,” he said. “And all the thanks?” “Well, naturally. Just leave an empty chair for me.” [Final Chorus — full communal celebration] Roll that orange moon downhill! Wake the dead behind the mill! You let December through the door— Now pass the pie. This means war! Raise the vines and let them run— November’s ours till Christmas comes! [Outro — instruments fall away] I stayed until the plates were dry. They sent me home with pumpkin pie. I set it down beside the light. [Spoken — quiet, faintly delighted] It asked me how I’d liked the night. [End]
