O, Tom Turkey, in the tree.
Why don’t you fly down close to me?
Up in your roost you gobble loud,
You wake the morning and sound so proud.
You hope for hens to call to you
And they respond, as I do too.
With beating wings you soon fly down,
But stroll away when on the ground.
Why do you Turkey haunt me so?
Struttin’ your stuff, putting on a show.
For all the hens both far and near
To see your plumage and gobbles hear.
Iridescent in mornings’ light
Your feathers shine and glimmer bright.
You puff yourself and fan your tail,
Then turn to take a different trail.
Now you’re much too far away,
To take a shot and end the day.
I’ll settle now for that young jake,
A bird to be the one I take.
When time runs out, you’d settle too,
For lesser turks that might just do.
Turkey hunting has come to be,
The sport that suits me perfectly.
So Turkey Time I now hold dear,
And look forward to it every year.
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