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Just a month before Christmas in a small country town,

Not a creature was stirring, for they’d all bedded down.

The turkey had been hung from the rafters in the shed,

Before putting it in the freezer it had to be bled.

The lights were turned off and the family nestled in bed,

with no further thought of the turkey out in the shed.

The cats had been fed and now prowled in the night,

looking for moths and adventure in the gentle moonlight.

But one of those cats, he was Rolly by name,

Knew that turkey meant feast time, and that patience was the game.

He sat there below it, eyes focused on the bird,

And was still there in the morning, the sight was absurd.

He’d sat there all night, in the hope that it fell,

that freshly killed turkey that he knew by the smell.

He’d waited and waited, but the reward never came,

and when the family came out they said to him, “Shame!”

He slunk off disappointed that the bird wasn’t to be,

but soon forgot all about it for another week or three.

Then came Christmas Day, and from the kitchen the smell

suggested a poultry sensation that he remembered so well.

As quick as a wink he was in through the door,

and lay there by the oven, stretched out on the floor.

His reward came eventually, which he accepted with glee,

Then with a turkey filled tummy he stretched out by the tree.

If purrs could be understood as he lay close to the wall,

He thanked us for the turkey and said, “Merry Christmas to all.”

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