Soliloquy Of A Turkey
by Paul Laurence Dunbar
Dey 's a so't o' threatenin' feelin' in
de blowin' of de breeze,
An' I 's feelin' kin' o' squeamish in de
night;
I 's a-walkin' 'roun' a-lookin' at de
diffunt style o' trees,
An' a-measurin' dey thickness an' dey
height.
Fu' dey 's somep'n mighty 'spicious in
de looks de da'kies give,
Ez dey pass me an' my fambly on de'
groun',
So it 'curs to me dat lakly, ef I caihs
to try an' live,
It concehns me fu' to 'mence to look
erroun'.
Dey 's a cu'ious kin' o' shivah runnin'
up an' down my back,
An' I feel my feddahs rufflin' all de
day,
An' my laigs commence to trimble
evah blessid step I mek;
W'en I sees a ax, I tu'ns my head
away.
Folks is go'gin' me wid goodies, an'
dey 's treatin' me wid caih,
An' I 's fat in spite of all dat I kin do.
I 's mistrus'ful of de kin'ness dat 's
erroun' me evahwhaih,
Fu' it 's jes' too good, an' frequent,
to be true.
Snow 's a-fallin' on de medders, all
erroun' me now is white,
But I 's still kep' on a-roostin' on de
fence;
Isham comes an' feels my breas'bone, an'
he hefted me las' night,
An' he 's gone erroun' a-grinnin' evah
sence.
'T ain't de snow dat meks me shivah;
't ain't de col' dat meks me shake;
'T ain't de wintah-time itse'f dat 's
'fectin me;
But I t'ink de time is comin', an' I 'd
bettah mek a break,
Fu' to set wid Mistah Possum in his
tree.
W'en you hyeah de da'kies singin', an'
de quahtahs all is gay,
'T ain't de time fu' birds lak me to be
erroun';
W'en de hick'ry chips is flyin', an' de
log 's been ca'ied erway,
Den hit 's dang'ous to be roostin'
nigh de groun'.
Grin on, Isham! Sing on, da'kies! But
I flop my wings an' go
Fu' de sheltah of de ve'y highest tree,
Fu' dey 's too much close ertention --
an' dey 's too much fallin' snow --
An' it 's too nigh Chris'mus mo'nin'
now fu' me.
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