Butterball by mary ellen

Tom cried "Foul!" the day he heard
That he would be someone's cooked bird.
"What of duck, of goose, of lamb?
What of roast or juicy ham?"

He'd always been proud of his looks.
In fact he'd flirted with the cooks.
Strutting through the kitchen door
Eating scraps off of the floor.

Not knowing they were salivating
While he stood there hungry, waiting.
They'd put more corn into his cup
And he'd tip it as he ate it up.

Mistaking all their eager glances
For all the extra eating chances.
Unaware of all the eyes
Looking at his ample thighs.

He was distressed this is quite true.
In fact you might say he was blue.
So depressed was he in fact,
He undertook a desperate act.

Tom plucked his feathers one by one.
Plucked them all till he had none.
Pulled and plucked and plucked and pulled
At least that's how the story's told.

Finally he stood there all goose pimples
His turkey flesh full of dimples
In his plan to be proactive
To make himself seem unattractive.

Surely now he wasn't food.
And yet he knew that he was screwed.
Cause then he heard the head cook's call,
"Where's my favorite Butterball?"