By Katherine Ellsworth-Krebs
Twas the night before Thanksgiving, and all through the pen,
not a creature was stirring, not even a hen
The feast was already, with its potatoes and pie,
now all they needed was for a turkey to fry
The turkeys were nestled, in their brown feathery jackets,
they were soon to be woken, by the farmers awful racquet.
Then the farmer was there, with his two ugly dogs,
the turkeys ran fast, they tripped over logs.
The turkeys opened the front door, hopped in and slammed it hard,
the farmer hammered the door, the door didn't open for it had been barred
The turkeys ran into closets, and hid behind a particular large pot,
the dog slowly sniffed things, then the farmer took his shot.
Now the turkeys were safe, no farmers feeling superior,
now the farmer blew it, for he knows he can't shoot the interior.
Well I guess there is no Thanksgiving for the farmer and his wife,
the turkeys were happy, they got to keep their life.
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