I'm raising turkeys to sell for thanksgiving.
It's not a good way to make a living.
People steal turkeys from me.
I'm nearly broke and I'm as mad as I can be.
People steal my turkeys when I turn my back.
They cart dozens of them off in sacks.
I bought a guard dog but all he does is humps people's legs.
I need some help, do I have to beg.
I have to buy new turkeys to replace the old ones.
I finally got so mad that I bought a shotgun.
But the shotgun was old and it exploded in my hands.
Now I have two stubs and I can't drive to Florida like I'd planned.
Believe me when I say if you sell turkeys, you'd better quit.
I can't keep taking this shit.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Well, I knew a farmer in New Jersey Who had to hide his sheep in the spring Cause people from New York thought it was just the thing To help themselves to the fruit of the country side For their Easter or Jewish thing. (And this is not fiction!)