Mister Franklin, humans call him;
Turkeys call him Gentle Ben.
Lovingly we keep his memory
From our tree or field or fen,
Once our day of thanks ensures
That some of us outlasted yours.
Wild and canny, lithe and limber,
Peaceful as a bird can be,
Perching high in Yankee timber,
We, true Sons of Liberty,
Ne’er forget good Ben’s appeal
That we might grace your own Great Seal.
But it never reached fruition,
Thus it never came to be;
Eagles and a warlike mission,
Longing for hegemony,
And your lust for others’ goods
Left us lone in quiet woods.
Turkey’s now your word for loser;
Like the slave-birds that you eat,
Bred obese, your every boozer
Swells with pride in each defeat,
As silent tears of sympathy
Fall from the eyes of us, still free.