We'd bronchitis, laryngitis,
And also no-one-to-invite-us,
So we stayed inside and tried to hide
Our poor attempt at turkicide,
By which I mean, you should have seen:
Our bird was fit to serve a queen—
As long as that fair regent sat
Upon a charred and smoking mat.
To be precise, we cooked it twice
As long as would have made it nice,
So had, instead, with blackened bread,
A turkey that was way past dead
(But straightaway, I haste to say,
NOT what could be called "flambé")
And all our stuffing, 'stead of fluffing,
In the bird had turned to nuffing.
Though tough as jerky, we ate our turkey
Under gravy, dark and murky—
A grisly brew of giblet stew,
Full of gizzard meat that's blue
And 'bout a peck (yes, every fleck)
Of stringy muscle from the neck;
But liver? Never! Never ever!
No, no—never, never, NEVER!
As for my mate…it's fortunate
That often I exaggerate,
And so with rue I say to you,
The "burned" part isn't really true.
But all the rest about our fest
Is just about the daring-est,
Sincere out-look an eater took
Who wished no trouble with the cook.
—Turkey Sans Gravy