This ain’t turkey with lard;
On the fowl it’s hard.
Eight pounds down gut—
Result fattens the butt.
The fowl are squealing
As four Frenchmen hold them down.
It’s not appealing,
This awful goose-gorging sound.
But foie gras’s what they sup.

Fat goose, fat goose,
Thickened for Sunday chews.
“S’il vous plait!
Plus en ce buffet.”
Jacques, he snacks—
Crusin’ for heart attacks.
Vous êtes fous,
Jacques, pour manger le fat goose.

They splay in this tool
To shove in corn, not gruel—
Shovel down until that part,
The liver, quivers, grows some,
The body then swells up.
Lipid content’s extra high—
Jacques’ body then swells up.
If he eats enough, he may die. . .
Worse than pie that’s lodged in the gut.

Fat goose, fat goose,
Thickened is Jacques’ caboose.
Says he, “Marie
Brayed it: ‘Cake it!’ but she,
Oh, should know!
That our fave’s not gâteau.
Goose we choose.
Her head cut; it she did lose!”

First Frenchman:
We pump in grain by ze pound.

Second Frenchman:
Pounds?! Zut! That’s kilos, you clown!

Third Frenchman:
Take toll on goose, ze goal.

Fourth Frenchman
Now, we’re cutting loose!

Cut loose, cut loose:
The liver of the goose.
Grease does please
Those who eat runny cheese.
Jacques: attack—
He’s lying on his back.
Shortly, mort.
Deathly noshing is fat goose.