Have you, past midnight in the grove,
Heard a singer of sorrow and of love…?
Nonsense—Pushkin wrote that long ago above.
Away with tenors, nightingales, their play!
Too old, too stale, not for today.
“Today you ought to hear the turkey’s voice,”
Declared the turkey, puffed up in his choice,
So swollen one could fear he’d burst:
“Just look at all my feathers! I’m the first!
My noble, stately air—just see!
And if I choose, I grumble grandly.
Can any nightingale compare?
Oh no, not even close—it’s me,
And my fine turkey-lady there!”
The beasts began to think and stare.
The cows, the horses, birds—confused—
At once the nightingale they shooed.
And here the tale could end, I’d say—
But no, it happened otherwise that day:
For straight from the capital arrived
A famous musician, much enamored
Of singing voices of all kinds.
Our turkey rushed to meet him—always in his sight.
They did not pass him by;
They honored him, all right—
By placing him upon a pan to fry.
And then the night—large, crimson—rose.
The moon climbed up. The honored guest arose
From table, saying: “Pardon an old man, I pray—
I did not come from far away
To hear a turkey croak.
I must confess, dear friends, I love
To hear a nightingale evoke
His tender voice from trees above.”
But he—alas—was gone.
“Find him!” They searched, they begged until he said:
“All right, I’ll sing.” And there upon
The tiny grey one sang full-throated, unafraid.
And now, the moral of this fable plain:
A haughty turkey suits a frying pan—
But for a song, the nightingale remains.