They gathered around me and chopped off my head,
They ripped out my feathers and filled me with bread.
Into the oven, I now go,
Slathered in butter and cilantro.
Baking in the oven for half a day,
While they are free to laugh and play.
Moved to the table, I see the knife,
Held by the farmer’s pretty wife.
I faint, glad I won’t feel,
As I become a Thanksgiving meal.
Ken_W_Writer’s Stories and Poems 