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Thanksgiving | ||
| There was an Indian, name of Joe, Who lived inside a tepee low. He went to hunt for turkey bird And then a gobble-gobble heard. Joe put an arrow to his bow And drew his arm to strike the blow. The arrow flew and hit its mark, And turkey fell dead in the park. Joe took the bird and brought it home To cook and eat as in this poem. Thanksgiving was a tasty meal. They ate the turkey, it was real. | ||
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