Quail hunting in my days of youth
the higher grasses my boot doth tramps.
Coveys take flight so loud it spooks,
would always make me piss my pants.
See, quail don’t disperse alone.
They always burst forth from the brush
in greater numbers. They doth hone
their shotgun takeoff. What a rush!
There was a time when I was seven
hunting rabbits with my dad.
I sent a hare to Bunny Heaven,
but not too soon. My aim was bad.
Armed with just a pellet rifle,
ammo bag across my hide,
the bunny got a lead filled eyeful.
Squealing while I stood and cried.
From that day on, I gave up short,
no longer dressed in camouflage.
I see no cause to hunt for sport,
no bed for me at the ol’ lodge!
So here I am, an odd cliché,
a warrior less a hunting vest.
But I can think of other ways
to have a manly piss contest!
Always!
Jas…
5 comments:
In our lodge, the pissing contests are comprised of storytelliing, joking, and endless philosophizing. I think you could keep up.
Nice poem, by the way.
Thanks Flannery! That's the kind of lodge I would love to be a part of.
Orange - Oh, I can F--- some paper targets up when I take a shinin' to it!
You're not a pussy my friend. I enjoy just what you described, the outdoors, the quiet. Give me a thermos of hot coffee and a sandwich, and I'll be good. I can certainly see hunting for survival, but in today's age, I don't see it any longer!
:D
Well, Red, you're a part of PMT, then you're a member of the lodge!
Post a Comment