A Thanksgiving Mystery Poem

Written by Moe Zilla

For Thanksgiving, try this game. Find the guilty turkey's name

in a mystery story rhyme telling of the strangest crime.

Though in winter, skies are grey, sunshine brightly shone today,

shimmering on a thousand lakes when America awakes.

Autumn winds in mornings cold paint the leaves of trees bright gold!

One lone farmer in his field studied all the food revealed.

With no children, all alone, he lived where the food was grown.

In the back, a wondrous spread where Thanksgiving turkey’s bred.

His calendar showed the dates America celebrates.

And this morning it would say he'd awoken to Thanksgiving day!

Through the country, he now knew, they'd enjoy the food he grew.

Favorite dishes people loved onto dinner plates were shoved.

Family dinner tables shone with the tasty plants he'd grown.

Parents, children, all await it. All but one group: Turkeys hate it.

In America, each year turkeys dread this day with fear,

fearing folks on every street hungering for turkey meat.

When the daylight brightly broke, all the farmer's birds awoke.

Since it is a holiday, all turkeys can talk today

in a wide and special space, glowing bright with autumn’s grace.

In the farmer's gloomy pen, Rusty checked the day again.

Sure today he'd meet his fate: someone else's dinner plate.

Gobbling to all who'd listen, "With salt brine I soon will glisten."

Rusty's worried eyes would droop, sadly in a shadowed coop.

Rusty's brother, Tiny, giggled, and his loose red wattle wiggled

on his beak, as he did say, "Strange to fear a holiday.

You greet it with such suspicion. I think that's just superstition.

Any day could be your last. Learn to live your life out fast!

Any day — and, please remember, no more likely in November."

But Rusty was not placated, filled with dread and gloom he waited.

His sad beak would not be brightened, it's sharp point looked dull and frightened.

"In our turkey pen we lie; on the fourth Thursday, we die."

Though his brother just adored him, other turkeys just ignored him.

There were two more playing games, Tom and Libby were their names.

Strutting 'round the turkey pen, Tom tried to impress the hen,

fanning his best turkey feather, hoping they'd soon be together.

Tom arrived three days before and bragged of a far-off shore

where the farmers knew their worth, letting turkeys roam the earth.

"Happy turkeys live there still, on the shores of Turkeyville."

Though the turkeys liked his joke, one shy Turkey never spoke.

Libby was her name — quite cute but they worried she was mute.

Libby seemed to like their den, she never left the turkey pen.

Even when the bright sun shone, Libby wouldn't leave alone.

Rusty searched in vain for hope. "Maybe it's still Wednesday. Nope."

Tiny laughed and teased poor Rusty. "Don't you think our farmer's trusty?

I think you should just relax. Just forget the farmer's axe."

Tom gave his strong wings a flap. Libby yawned, and took a nap.

All their gobbling gabbing sounds filled the farmer's fertile grounds.

Soon the farmer had returned for a dinner that he'd earned.

Standing in the wintry sun, his hard work was finally done.

He'd prepare a pumpkin pie, mashed potatoes, piled high.

His best plate would be deserving for the meal he'd be serving.

Now was time to pick the winner — which turkey to choose for dinner?

He strolled proud into his yard, studying his pen quite hard.

Soon the farmer leaned in to stare at the turkeys waiting there.

Rusty shook with fear and dread. Tiny laughed and bobbed his head.

Libby's sleepy eyes were shutting. Tom ignored them all, still strutting.

In November, nature lies under dreary winter skies.

Autumn touched the meadows too, where the yellow wheat stalks grew.

Soon the farmer looked around but no sharp axe could be found.

Then he looked around again, Ten feet from the turkey pen.

What he saw would make him smile: sawdust in a messy pile.

where his axe had laid now was just a lonely blade

but no handle that could bring it to the farmer's arms to swing it.

It was gone, the farmer knew, thanks to one smart turkey who

wishing that the axe was banished, pecked its handle till it vanished!

It would take at least a week to destroy it with a beak.

Now the farmer, laughing, said to the turkeys by his shed:

"Was my turkey-keeping lax? Which of you destroyed my axe?"

For Thanksgiving, try this game. Find the guilty turkey's name!