At Christmas time the poulterer's is all a blaze of gas, And rows and rows of turkeys that will strut the farm no more. The shopman smoothes his apron and assures the folk who pass That never was such plump and pleasing poultry seen before. For sorry the turkey, yet the fault's his own, I fear, For had he kept his counsel he'd have grown an older bird; But having bade us "Gobble! gobble! gobble!" all the year, He can't complain at Christmas if we take him at his word. |