Talking Turkey
Turkeys –
Flightless birds that secretly fly,
Strutting, snooding, cocks of the walk
Far too trusting, never shy,
They land on our tables with barely a squawk.
Despite a mislocated name,
From Henry the Eighth to Norfolk farms,
Across the Atlantic, on they came,
With a boost from Scrooge to their pilgrim charms.
Turkeys –
Flops and bombs and guano stinkers,
Showy quills, but soon forgot
Once back to work with Winter blinkers,
Far from the rounds of the turkey trot.
But still, they are a feast well-spent –
And even cold, they set us free…
With a pardon from the President,
Or a gobble to bid bon appétit.
Rhyming Couplets 