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Turkey 
My love runs by like a day in June,
And he makes no friends of sorrows.
He'll tread his galloping rigadoon
In the pathway or the morrows.
He'll live his days where the sunbeams start
Nor could storm or wind uproot him.
My own dear love, he is all my heart --
And I wish somebody'd shoot him.
-- Dorothy Parker, part 3
For knighthood is not in the feats of war,
As for to fight in quarrel right or wrong,
But in a cause which truth cannot defer
📗 -- ⚡ -- 🍖 -- 🥒 -- 🌏 -- 👃 -- 🚗 -- 🚘 -- 🌳 -- 🍇 -- 🥗 -- 🐝 -- 🌋 -- 🏓 -- 🐛