My friend, Fran, had a farm in High Ham,
On which she raised Christmas turkey,
She used milk from her cows, as part of their chow*,
And to keep her birds fat, fit and perky.
Raised on this diet, the turkeys ran riot,
Gained tone and put on shed loads of weight,
But one turkey called Kent, was more reticent,
Didn’t want to be fattened up for the plate.
So he thought up a scheme, a keep-fit regime,
To keep himself thin and weedy,
He thought he would jump off the roof or the pump,
So as to look scrawny and needy.
When it approached the date to eviscerate,
Kent was still as light as a sparrow,
Fran took one look, eschewed the butcher’s hook,
And set him on a path straight and narrow.
Henceforth he’d be the token escapee,
The mascot for the farm,
- Fed all he could eat, this feathered athlete,
Would never come to any harm.
*chow = food