Twenty million Hoosier birds
will fall to our bloody hands
in the course of the year,
but we'll praise ourselves
for the "two" we spare
Pointless political pageantry
where our blood-thirsty "saviors"
will still fully savor the flesh
of finely roasted death
But we'll call them lucky,
the two whose necks
we didn't place
beneath our ax
Lucky
it wasn't your blood
we drained
Lucky
it wasn't your anal cavaties
we stuffed with bread
Lucky
for our endless kindness
Lucky
we bothered to give you a name
Lucky
we pardoned you
from your countless
turkey crimes
