Grr! Argh!
My foot is a zombie.

No, really.

Turkey? by Shel Silverstein

I only ate one drumstick
At the picnic dance this summer,
Just one little drumstick--
They say I couldn't be dumber.
One tough and skinny drumstick,
Why was that such a bummer?
But everybody's mad at me,
Especially the drummer.

Since There's No Help, by Michael Drayton

Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part:
Nay, I have done; you get no more of me;
And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart
That thus so cleanly I myself can free.
Shake hands forever; cancel all our vows;
And when we meet at any time again,
Be it not seen in either of our brows
That we one jot of former love retain.
Now at the last gasp of love's latest breath
When, his pulse failing, passion speechless lies,
When faith is kneeling by his bed of death
And innocence is closing up his eyes;
Now, if thou would'st, when all have given him over,
From Death to Life thou might'st him yet recover.

Excerpt from Mr. Mistoffelees, by TS Eliot

You ought to know Mr. Mistoffelees!
The Original Conjuring Cat--
(There can be no doubt about that).
Please listen to me and don't scoff. All his
Inventions are off his own bat.
There's no such Cat in the metropolis;
He holds all the patent monopolies
For performing surprising illusions
And creating eccentric confusions.
At prestigation
And at legerdemain
He'll defy examination
And decieve you again.
The greatest magicians have something to learn
From Mr. Mistoffelees' Conjuring Turn.
Presto!
Away we go!
And we all say: OH!
Well, I never!
Was there ever
a Cat so clever as Magical Mr. Mistoffelees!

And finally...Old Sorrel Mare Turning More and More Roan, by Paul Zarzyski

She would not have stood still for this
just a year ago, at 24, without halter--
the Bute paste syringe I ease between her lips
twice a day, arm draped around her drooping neck,
our eyes, a few inches apart, hers
crusty and, lately, seeping
as I come closer each evening
to believing the ultimate
meaning of life is nothing
more than accepting death. I kiss her brow
at dawn, lick a fingertip, rub away
the crud beneath her eyes, scratch
her sagged belly, say good morning ol' girl,
feed her the healthiest-looking flakes,
walk spryly back to the house,
pour hot coffee atop the half-cup of lukewarm,
phone my 81-year-old Mother. I kiss again
the old mare's brow at dusk,
massage her belly, enjoy watching her head poised
young-colt-high, noble as she held it
in her foaling days. I fork her the greenest
leafiest alfalfa-brome mix,
plod the shadowy path
back to the house--so much longer
now, in the echo of my own goodnight, knowing
I have already phoned home.