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!”