A Message From The Save the Turkey Eat Peacock Society

On the roof and looking through my heritage
Someone must be blamed for the reason I am fat
No, not my mom, nor my dad, but way way back
How far it went, records with no pencil, pad or fountain pen
I guess as the first cave walls were painted
Perspective souls began to argue by campfire lights
And though they may or may not have had sundials
And maybe they recognized day and hours to sleep at night
Which means they might have had a schedule planner
Such creative people, yes, but they continued to argue
Causing the fat cell to make me a fat cow in my pajamas

Not that I wear any, but hold on: You quick to censor
I wear my sweat pants twenty four hours a day
Yes, in case you peek, I wear them in the shower too
Saves on laundry, the electric bill and soap from the tube
You say it must be toothpaste, wash cloth, yes, it's sticky 
If it cleans my teeth, why can't it clean my face and nose
I'm probably wrong this time and I'm man enough to admit it
But that doesn't excuse the fact that I'm rather butterball fat
I mean, gobble, gobble, oops,  that wasn't me
Wrong time of the year, so I would like to share a bit of history
Double checked, put through the rack, secretly water boarded
News, so if you doubt the truth, a colorful tail that's approved

Back when men wore funny hats and were friendly, but went Dutch
Sorry, they were English and had good grammar for such is such
Since there were no grammar rules to speak of, possibility of signs
It slowed down exhaustive research and a few probable finds
Like colorful feathers, no not from the dollar store, or fifty percent off
Feathers like some actress wore somewhere in a movie that fell off
Well, that's a bit embarrassing, straying off topic, back to the main course
Our patriotic Pilgrims unfurled a flag, if they had one,
And probably talked about the weather, endless subject from day one
Cavemen probably argued over words to describe the wind and Sun
And that is why I'm fat and have two left feet: Should be the Peacock Trot
Dance, of course, I don't mean running to the nearest Honey Pot.

Well, the history books will have to change, for evidence, feather flakes
The bird the Pilgrim's discombobulated was the turkey that stumbled away
So,  keeping their hats on, they grabbed a peacock, and sang campfire songs
Quite a few peacock's had their roasted wishbones pulled: No, that's wrong
They did not believe in superstition, but found Peacock a tasty treat and bones
For their dogs, maybe one of their distant offspring gets an Oval office home
No, that has no real proof, just an urban legend, a myth like the cherry tree
Well, you can imagine the alarm this caused in the Peacock Unity Movement
And is why you don't see roaming peacocks in Boston, Cape Cod or by the sea

Something odd, in the annals of bird call underground specialists
The Peacocks that Winter migrated to Florida and stayed
The poor turkey has suffered since the second fateful Thanksgiving Day
That's 1621, not 1620, nor 1863 as added by Honest Abe
Hear the gentle turkey's gobbling song, 'I'm not a Peacock, Hear Me Roar'
Turkeys understand what has happened and mobility makes them sore
Boston and Cape Cod need peacock donations (whole bird please)
Let's give a gobble, gobble, oops, cheer, for no more violence
Against the Turkey. Gobbling geewhizikers wild and free