It's time for Tom to lose his wattled head.
He's designated martyr for the feast.
We pluck him naked and stuff him with bread
Then roast his hapless carcass whole or pieced.
We carve, dismember, separate his flesh
and pile it high upon a festive plate.
Oh, Butterball you juicy thing, so fresh
and tasty, every bite is simply great.
Although we never heard him gobble
without a head he cannot demonstrate.
A turkeys future cannot be squabbled
his life is brief and predetermined fate.
Without a turkey there's no misgiving
there would not be a Happy Thanksgiving.