Ode to a Thanksgiving Turkey
Posted by Moose on November 23rd, 2006. Filed under: Tis the Season.Fred sat on his bed, all alone in his shed
Pondering his own demise.
Innocent was he, til suddenly
He learned of a recipe.
~
Through the swinging door
Flounced a woman, bound for the store.
Her list noted sherry, butter, onions, and spread
With which to baste poor, succulent Fred.
~
Fred gobbled in horror, and shook with dread.
Visions of mayhem danced in his head.
“Bread crumbs will be stuffed,
Where no bread crumbs belong!”
His turkey heart stopped,
At thoughts of the prong.
~
“I’ll be roasted til warm!
My tender carcass torn,
By murderous hordes, with mouths all agape…
Unless I contrive to escape.”
~
Fred bemoaned not his fate,
Nor the loss of his mate.
(She fled to Mexico, Tuesday last.)
Just stroked his waddle and strategized cunning bait.
~
Devoid of malice, Fred hoisted a ballast,
Trimmed with feathers from his own tasty back.
With any luck, it’s the fake that would bake
On the family’s turkey rack.
(Fred hoped it would taste of old, moldy tack.)
~
Decoy in place, Fred waddled for space
In the Underground Turkey Base.
(A halfway house,
For Turkeys in Need Due to Thanksgiving Greed.)
~
Fred’s tender haunches swaying,
The nasty basset hound began braying,
Alerting the cook to the dash,
Of her prized turkey stash.
~
Fred danced through the yard,
As the woman in her rage knocked a bucket of lard.
Fred weaved from post to tree,
The cook weeping and waving her brie.
~
“Stop him!” she cried,
“Our dinner must be trussed and tied!”
So brawny farm boys tore out,
To save for their dinner Fred’s broad juicy stout.
~
Large hands closing in,
Fred’s gobbling made quite a din.
As he braced his round quarters to be
Dunked in sherry, butter, and tea.
~
“Hark! What’s that ringing?
Are those angels singing?”
Thought poor Fred,
Quite distraught at the thought of being dead.
~
Shrill blaring, brought blank staring
From farm boys unfamiliar with advancements like the phone.
“It’s the President!” yelled the woman
Who to screeching and cheese-waving was prone.
~
“That damn Bush! He’s pardoned our dinner!”
Screamed the woman, brandishing for emphasis her salad spinner.
~
“Thank the Great Fowl above!”
Gibbered Fred, suddenly filled with boundless love.
As he said a prayer for Bush
Witless savior of his tush.
~
The farm boys ate spam
While Fred boarded a tram
Bound for parts unknown,
Filled with relief that his cavities remained unsewn.
~
The End
~
(Alternate title of this poem: Screw the Meter)
Happy Thanksgiving, all!
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November 23rd, 2006 at 7:44 pm
Wonderful poem!! How did you ever think of it??
LOVE IT!!!!!!!!!!!!
Melia + Nick
November 24th, 2006 at 2:50 am
Thoughts of the prong! HAAAAA!
Unsewn cavities are indeed the best sort of cavities when you’re a farm animal.
November 24th, 2006 at 6:28 am
Downright Chaucerian, that was. Loved it. And Bush finally gets to be the Saviour!
November 24th, 2006 at 8:26 am
Brandishing a salad spinner for emphasis is my new pet gesture.
MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOSE!
November 24th, 2006 at 9:55 am
Author! Author!
November 24th, 2006 at 1:40 pm
So… uh. how does brie find its way into thanksgiving?
i’ve seen it mentioned a few times now, involved in american meals, and like green bean casseroles (which have now been explained to me), I am at a loss!
November 24th, 2006 at 7:47 pm
haha thats good!
November 25th, 2009 at 11:34 am
“Witless savior of his tush” was probably my favorite line. Well done! Long live Fred!