What's the need to be a pet,
if you're going to end up in a pot.
The king already borrowed a wing,
but had yet to take everything.
If the royal hunters
didn't return with fresh meat quick,
turkey would be the kings next pick.
The king loved his meat well done,
but turkey wished he wasn't the one.
Forget the dressings,
turkey had learned his lessons.
as greedy tis,
His master was a chow hound,
and loved his meat seasoned and ground.
However poor turkey was exempt,
from the grinding little imp.
He knew he would probably be roasted,
then greedly toasted.
The king treated turkey good,
or was it, the king dressed turkey good.
the pot was counstantly boiling,
and turkey was constantly hiding.
turkey hid right under the kings nose,
he followed right by his toes.
The kings stomach was so fat,
he couldn't even touch his floor mat.
Neither could he see,
past his knee.
Every now and then,
the king heard a gobble,
then he would babble,
"where is that tasty pet?"
Then turkey would regret,
being a royal pet.
Thanksgiving was on its way.
and turkey couldn't fly away.