A turkey discovers an unexpected Thanksgiving and her knack for a limerick.
|I once was a turkey plump and bold, sleek, chic, unique, not of a set mould. My impressive white breast had been rated the best and my emotions ran hot and cold. To a Thanksgiving feast I did trot with a bread and spice-based dish I'd bought. Hosts stuffed it down my throat. Their smiling insistence caused me bloat. What had triggered this grand misplaced thought? Why this hands-on focused attention? Appetite and size misconception. I'm a hearty gal, yes. I eat, no need to press. To share the stuffing my intention. My friends crossed the line of decorum, ruffled feathers along my sternum. Oily hands rubbed my spine. A massage I declined. Ne'er a dinner party left me numb. With a sickening feeling of shock, I wiped salt from my eyes and took stock. My invite 'to a meal' meant 'for meal', on appeal. Squawk, this social scene proved a 'fowl' crock. I once did enjoy making merry. I'd gobble food, chat, and sip sherry. I now check the menu leery of 'befriend you', and hosts that recommend cranberry. ( 30 lines )|