The ballad of the plump turkeys
Emmanuel Chabrier
Across the fields the turkey-cocks
process like a grave delegation,
along the stream, beside the rocks,
in a follow-the-lead formation.
A woman of lowly station,
spinning and humming, idly looks
at their dimwitted resignation,
les gros dindons.
They plod like pompous auctioneers
attired in dumb ostentation,
or portly bailiffs, proud and mean,
who observe you with accusation.
Their red wattles' oscillation
brushes the thistles where they seem
to be holding a convocation,
les gros dindons.
From them the nightingale's fine talk
wins never the least acclamation;
they stumble on behind the cock
with the weightiest reputation.
And when the church-bells' vibration
rings from behind the village clock
they return to their habitation,
les gros dindons.
A life that's useful, gross and gruff
expresses their whole aspiration.
For them the pretty songs of love
are too futile an occupation.
The fattest bourgeois in creation,
they couldn't ever give a stuff
for romance or imagination,
les gros dindons.