Turkey With a Shotgun
He came at us in the middle of the night.
Carrying a shotgun, and it was not light.
He shot at my husband but was way off to the right.
I saw it was the turkey and knew we’d have a fight.
I hid under the bed and refused to pop out my head.
I knew that gobbler was waiting to make all of us dead.
Then I heard the little ones climbing out of their bed,
So I dashed down the hallway, and hid with them instead.
Bam! That gun off. The turkey was a killing machine.
He took out the boarders, Mr. and Mrs. McQueen.
I yelled “Turkey, we were going to have ham, not turkey lean.”
He came into the room; his eyes had a wild mean gleam.
He took that shotgun and put holes all over the wall.
Then he strutted out, looking at least ten foot tall.
Never get a turkey whose been on steroids again,
I told my husband, who had been hiding from him.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
