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The turkey shot out of the oven,
And rocketed into the air.
It knocked every plate off the table,
And partly demolished a chair.

It ricocheted into a corner,
And burst with a deafening boom.
Then splattered all over the kitchen,
Completely obscuring the room.

It stuck to the walls and the windows.
It totally coated the floor.
There was turkey attached to the ceiling,
Where there’d never been turkey before.

It blanketed every appliance.
It smeared every saucer and bowl.
There wasn’t a way I could stop it.
That turkey was out of control!

I scraped and I scrubbed with displeasure,
And thought with chagrin as I mopped,
That I’d never again stuff a turkey
With popcorn that hadn’t been popped.

Gobbler said, “Doctor, help me! I can’t stop acting like a turkey!”
“I see,” said the doctor. “How long have you had this problem?”
“Let me think a second. Mom laid the egg in 1954…”

When I was a young turkey, new to the coop,
My big brother Mike took me out on the stoop,
Then he sat me down, and he spoke real slow,
And he told me there was something I had to know;
His look and his tone I will always remember,
When he told me of the horrors of…..Black November;

“Come about August, now listen to me,
Each day you’ll get six meals instead of just three,
And soon you’ll be thick, where once you were thin,
And you’ll grow a big rubbery thing under your chin.”

“And then one morning, when you’re warm in your bed,
In’ll burst the farmer’s wife, and hack off your head.
Then she’ll pluck out your feathers so you’re bald ‘n pink,
And scoop out your insides and leave ya lyin’ in the sink.”

“And then comes the worst part,” he said not bluffing,
“She’ll spread your cheeks and pack your rear end with stuffing.”
Well, the rest of his words were too grim to repeat,
I sat on the stoop like a winged piece of meat.

I decided on the spot that to avoid being cooked.
I’d have to lay low and remain overlooked.
I began a new diet of nuts and granola,
High-roughage salads, juice and diet cola.

And as they ate pastries, chocolates and crepes,
I stayed in my room doing Jane Fonda tapes.
I maintained my weight of two pounds and a half,
And tried not to notice when the bigger birds laughed.

But ’twas I who was laughing, under my breath,
As they chomped and they chewed, ever closer to death.
And sure enough when Black November rolled around,
I was the last turkey left in the whole compound.

So now I’m a pet in the farmer’s wife’s lap;
I haven’t a worry, so I eat and I nap.
She held me today, while sewing and humming,
And smiled at me and said, “Christmas is coming….”

Q: What did the Pilgrim vampire celebrate?

A: Fangsgiving!

Q: Why do turkeys always go “gobble, gobble”?

A: Because they never learned good table manners!



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