Ode to a Thanksgiving Turkey
Posted by Moose on November 21st, 2007. Filed under: Tis the Season.There was a young turkey named Fred
Who was forced to live in a shed.
‘Twas quite all right, for six dark nights
‘Til he realized someone wanted him dead.
~
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 remain unsewn.
~
The End
~
Confession: This is a re-post from last year. But Fred makes me happy. Even if he doesn’t seem to understand the construction of rhyming couplets. (Alternate title: Screw the Meter.)
Happy Thanksgiving, all!
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November 21st, 2007 at 3:16 pm
I was gonna say, this seems… familiar…
November 21st, 2007 at 6:42 pm
Just as good as it was the first time around….
November 21st, 2007 at 10:13 pm
HAAAA.
November 22nd, 2007 at 7:01 am
happy thanksgiving moosey!
November 22nd, 2007 at 11:13 am
“I’ll be roasted til warm!
My tender carcass torn,
By murderous hordes, with mouths all agape…
Unless I contrive to escape.”
–my favorite stanza.
Happy! Thanksgiving, Moose. Please pass the stuffing.
November 25th, 2007 at 10:12 am
Read it for the first time and fell in love right away with Fred?
November 26th, 2007 at 5:22 pm
This was awesomely cool! Dude, you’re the BONG!
Thanks for the broken vagina update. Even strangers, such as myself, have been concerned. And wondering . . . (but not wandering).
I smell a wonderful children’s book idea, in this entertaining poem about Fred.
Please post it again next year!
November 29th, 2007 at 10:31 am
LOL!!! Oh.My.Word. I heart Fred. This puts a whole new spin on Thanksgiving!
November 30th, 2010 at 11:36 pm
[...] have written a grand total of one poem in my entire life. (Except for Ode to a Thanksgiving Turkey, which I’m not convinced actually counts.) Bound by an assignment from my favorite English [...]
November 23rd, 2011 at 3:49 pm
[...] masquerading as coffee in those red cups. The poem I wrote in 2007 about a turkey escapee named Fred. Thanksgiving with my family. Going to a whiskey-swilling, boot stomping, bluegrass-listenin’ [...]