Trevor the turkey

Trevor the turkey

Trevor the turkey was putting on weight.

He thought it had something to do with the date.

He racked his brains, but he couldn’t remember

why his mum had said most turkeys don’t like December.

He didn’t know why he was feeling so nervy,

more and more as his shape got increasingly curvy.

He caught a bus from the farm, and went down to the gym,

got a personal trainer and tried to get slim.

He spent hours each day on the exercise bike,

but the farmer said, “Trevor, leave my farm if you like.

I’ve got no room here for a turkey so thin.”

So Trevor went off and booked himself in

to a health farm and lived for a month on a diet

of lettuce and fruit juices, peace and quiet.

He stayed until spring, then went back to the farm,

but the farmer said, “Trevor, whilst your figure has charm,

I know that, when cooked you’d be rather sinewy.

Your fat–free physique would be tasteless and chewy.”

So Trevor, with hardly a backward glance,

left England for ever and headed for France,

where he lives to this day in a flat near Mon Martre,

drinking wine, eating brie, reading Jean Paul Sartre.

The moral is, if you’re a turkey, remember,

always go on a diet at the end of November.