The tofurkey ran
Chased by a fat man holding a fork
Upon wobbly boneless legs it flew
Barely touching the ground in haste
Until at a crossroads it found itself
With no head nor brain to suss a direction out
It lingered and wavered
Over which fork to take
Until the fat man pierced the place where it's heart should be
Were it a real turkey
With a cry from oil-shiny sweet potatoed lips
"You'll take MY fork, or none at all!"
It was with defeated tofu sweat tears that it succumbed
With dreams undreamed and wishes unyearned
And a quiet declaration of purpose at last:
"If I cannot get away, I hope to at least give him heartburn"
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