|Owed (ode?) To Guys Who Won't Learn (standard:poetry, 253 words)|
|Author: Eutychus||Added: Dec 03 2002||Views/Reads: 2202/0||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|This is my reaction to the yearly journey many of my associates make to their favorite Bambi-murdering corner of Ohio.|
The guys that go out hunting deer are a different sort of breed Who take time off from work each year to fill a primal need. A voice that whispers "go, maim, kill, hurt Bambi, inflict pain, For real men do not eat meat that's wrapped in cellophane." And so he's off to deer country and makes a dozen stops At Emma Lee's, the Crik, the Lounge for whiskey, beer and such. And in an alcoholic haze, he hunts(a thought that's scary), He sees his prey, he fires, then calls out "whoops, sorry, Larry!" While you and I, we normal folk, our fingers would be frozen, These guys, content with frostbite, wonder 'bout the loads they've chosen. Because they've told us for a year this outing would be fun Amid tales of reloading and the sighting-in of guns. So I'll listen to outdoorsy tales, often for the umpteenth time, Of how, when dismounting the treestand, he's as likely to fall as climb. Though I say I've heard the tale before, that I've memorized every letter, He says with confidence and pride, "Never mind, it's gotten better." Later, as he trudges home, half froze and without fauna, He dreams of ways of warming up like sitting in a sauna. If he could he'd sit in a steam-filled room that's full of red hot rocks That's hot enough to sterilize a West Virginian's socks. And though he's disappointed that he didn't see one deer, The boy's already dreaming of the fun he'll have next year. Tweet
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