The turkey shot out of the oven
and rocketed into the air.
It smashed a glass jug on the table
and nearly demolished a chair.

Like dynamite blasting a quarry,
it burst with a deafening boom,
then spattered all over the kitchen,
transforming the look of the room.

It ruined my favourite cookbook.
It sullied the cream in the bowl.
There wasn’t a way I could stop it –
that turkey was out of control!

It coated the walls and the windows.
It spread out all over the floor.
There were pieces of flesh on the ceiling.
It looked like the Second World War.

We made do with boiled eggs, cold pilchards,
the sprouts, some de-frosted white bread
and (fine wines no longer an option)
the stock from the giblets instead.

Reclaiming the kitchen took ages.
I said to myself as I mopped,
“I’ll never again stuff a turkey
with popcorn that hasn’t been popped!”

Adapted by John Barclay from an anonymous poem found on the Internet


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