Once upon a time there was a turkey, one that I’d pick out with mom,
The turkey was moist and delicious, but whose name was not said to be ‘Tom.’
Every Thanksgiving she’d say it, that it was time to go and fillet it.
Before that, Tom ran around every beginning, of Fall, trying to keep his head.
He knew Turkey lover’s abounded, with great dismay, he knew he’d be dead.
He felt lying on a table, on a platter surrounded by filling,
was a most unsuccessful outcome, for a turkey accustomed to thrilling.
His hens he did lay, on bright chilly days,
They’d cluck and they’d buck, and roll in the hay and afterwards, he would run away,
The hens did lay his eggs, and then have to beg,
to have him come sit on the nest, so they could have a rest.
Tom did what he did, and what he did was the best,
but after Thanksgiving, he was just like the rest.
He fed us our meal, and then his carcass to lay,
as we turned our attention to a cold Christmas Day.