Free-Range or Not, He's Dead

A late Thanksgiving post

Dan insisted that I post the poem I wrote for Thanksgiving. Read it with veiled eyes and for the silly parody that it is.

Free-Range or Not, He's Dead
a sonnet (in Shakespearean form)

O thou organic bird of local charm,
With praise we braise thee for tradition's taste.
We cannot say we meant to do thee harm,
Although your free-range days are shortly past.
Thou ruest the morn that bent thy wattled head
(Under the nutmeg farmer's axey blade)
And long for the fresh wind, and grassy bed
Where memories of turkey-hens were made.
Consider now our Thanks, and simple hymn
Of ritual harvest in autumnal days
Because they fathers died for ancient whim.
Gravy ablutions now to thee we raise.
And pardon our strange ways--for us 'tis meet
In giving thanks, to have too much to eat.

notes:
1 it is now considered the moral choice to eat a turkey that led a presumably happy life and was purchased at the local store (Whitneyville Food Center) which procures such birds from farms within the state and run by families whose grandfathers fed the Pilgrims
6 we live in the Nutmeg State
12 A reference to a traditional thanksgiving hymn