Pardon
The turkey who gets pardoned
Doesn’t understand his luck,
As all his buddies soon will have
Their feathers set to pluck.
Tradition gives the president
One pardon every year.
Most likely, then, that pardoned bird
Will up and disappear.
Where does he go? Where will he live?
Is this a second chance
Or will he have to do, next year,
The “Please don’t kill me!” dance?
The rest of us get ready to
Find recipes we’ve stored,
Relieved to know our turkeys, dead,
Have somehow climbed on board.
For just how disconcerting
Would a scene like this one be:
An oven-ready gobbler shouting,
“Hey there! Pardon me!”
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