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11/28/2017 7:11 PM

We had a great deer camp this year. I was the only one in camp who did not kill a deer. Not that I didn’t have the opportunity. I did not need meat this year so I could hunt with no pressure of making a kill. I was only going to take a large buck, antlers for my wall, meat for a buddy’s freezer. Well, all I saw was a very large doe. I had the crosshairs on her and finger on the trigger. I said bang in my head and let her walk. Successful hunt in my mind. I did take time to write a poem though. I figured I’d share it with you all.


Deer camp 2017


    ‘Twas opening day, in the great north wood. 

     The rain steadily fell, this was no good. 


    Their packs were hung by the chimney with care, 

     in hopes that drier weather soon would be there. 


     The hunters hung over, feeling half dead, 

     while visions of Bullwinkle danced in their head.


     The warden in truck, and I in my blind, 

     Were playing the game of seek and find. 


     When out on the forty there arose such a clatter. 

     I stumbled from my seat to see what was the matter. 


     I climbed up the ridge to get a better look. 

     When there on the high ground a figure just shook.


    When what to my bloodshot eyes should appear. 

     A bunch of blaze orange and a big hairy rear. 


    With a stench and stink I knew in a blink, 

    da Jimmer had had too much to drink. 


     More belligerent than a liberal his courses they came.

     And he shouted and slurred and called them by name. 


    Now, Beer! Now, Whiskey! Now, Moonshine and Brandy, 

    On, Vodka! On, Gin! On, Cognac and Remy!


    From the first tiny shot up to the last call. 

    Da Jimmer, he drank till great was his fall. 


    He bitched and he moaned with such a vigor. 

    Even seeing a buck he was too drunk to pull trigger. 


    We brought him to camp, filled him with food, 

    tucked him in tight, trying not to be rude. 


    No one was angry, no one in a huff,

   He’s not the first at Luzerne to be drunk in the buff


    Now the second day came, his hangover worse.

    To the woods he went, he was no wuss. 


    Quietly he sat as slowly he froze. 

    When there in the distance he saw a black nose. 


    Was it a buck or a doe, if he only knew. 

    His only hope was that his shot would ring true. 


    It made it’s way in to the spot da Jimmer had prepared.

    His crosshairs they settled on a patch of brown hair. 


    The thunder it came, a flash of bright light. 

    It was time for this whitetail  to say goodnight. 


    When the smoked cleared the Jimmer just stared. 

    This deer he had shot, was dead right there. 


    Proud he was that he had killed this beast. 

    Back straps we’d have for a deer camp feast. 


    He made his way out to to marvel and behold. 

    Only to find he had shot a small doe. 


    It’s spots on the ground where they were knocked off.

    He knew back at camp the guys would just scoff.


    Humble as he was, he began to pray. 

    Thank you Lord, for this blessed day. 


    His freezer has meat, his family is fed. 

    Now if this damn hangover would just leave his head. 


Congrats on the kill Jimmer!

November 16, 2017

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