I Once Did Enjoy Making Merry

         I once was a turkey plump and bold,

         sleek, chic, unique, not of a set mould.

         My impressive white breast

         had been rated the best

         and my emotions ran hot and cold.

         

         To a Thanksgiving feast I did trot

         with a bread and spice-based dish I'd bought.

         Hosts stuffed it down my throat.

         Their smiling insistence caused me bloat.

         What had triggered this grand misplaced thought?

         

         Why this hands-on focused attention?

         Appetite and size misconception.

         I'm a hearty gal, yes.

         I eat, no need to press.

         To share the stuffing my intention.

         

         My friends crossed the line of decorum,

         ruffled feathers along my sternum.

         Oily hands rubbed my spine.

         A massage I declined.

         Ne'er a dinner party left me numb.

         

         With a sickening feeling of shock,

         I wiped salt from my eyes and took stock.

         My invite 'to a meal'

         meant 'for meal', on appeal.

         Squawk, this social scene proved a 'fowl' crock.

         

         I once did enjoy making merry.

         I'd gobble food, chat, and sip sherry.

         I now check the menu

         leery of 'befriend you',

         and hosts that recommend cranberry. ( 30 lines )