HarbalEsquire Poetry (2)

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.

“We have eaten all the oysters,”
the Carpenter proclaimed.
The Walrus looked around to see
no single one remained.
“They were so plump and tasty, though,
we hardly can be blamed.”

The Walrus and the Carpenter
walked off along the sand,
then all at once they noticed they
were walking hand in hand.
Although, as to the reason why,
they did not understand.

And then the Walrus turned to speak,
but knew not what to say.
Perhaps a word or two about
the strangeness of their day.
“I’m worried,” said the Carpenter,
“I think we might be gay.”

“That’s not so bad,” the Walrus said,
“in fact, it might be fun.”
“Let’s stop right here upon the sand
And make love in the sun.
But when he turned to face his friend,
The Carpenter had gone.