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!”