I raised my own turkey one year,
to be part of our Yuletide fare,
he lived in the house like a pet,
and we spared no expense on his care.

When it came to the fateful day,
for the gathering to be fed,
it was with a heavy heart,
I took an axe and cut off his head.

Then, on the very next day,
half asleep in my favourite chair,
his spirit appeared right before me,
the turkey’s ghost on the stair.

And now every year at Christmas,
since through that bird’s neck I sliced,
my turkey comes back to haunt me,
in the form of a poultrygeist.