Wednesday, May 9, 2018

A Turkey Hunter's Poem

I was fishing on the river with my shotgun in my boat, just in case I heard a turkey on my peaceful river float.

Stopped above a gentle current to cast my jolly-wobbler, when across the stream a good half mile I heard a turkey gobbler.

So I grabbed my old pump shotgun and behind a tree I hid, and started making hen talk with my cedar box and lid.

That old tom got excited and come struttin’ t’ward the stream, just like dozens more before him, hot and bothered, buildin’ steam

He visualized a sweet young hen, ‘cause my callin’ was so good, he was fooled so bad he hurried, didn’t see me where I stood.

He just jumped into the river, with his mating urges strong.  His beard was like a well rope and his bright red waddle… long.

His spurs looked like two switch-blades, as he gobbled loud and clear, in the middle of the river, thinkin’ romance was so near.

Well I lowered my old shotgun, cause I’d been that way before, and I felt a little sorry for that old wet paramour

So I wasn’t gonna shoot him, ‘til he looked down in the water, and saw a big ol’ smallmouth, and stabbed at it and got ‘er.

It seemed that he came all that way a gobblin’ and a struttin’, ‘cause likely for the last two days or so he hadn’t eaten nuthin’

When he seen that big fish there so close, he figured he’d have dinner, then find that sexy hen he’d heard and be a double winner.

But that bass, she was a fat one, two pounds or so I figger.  And it riled me something awful, cause I hadn’t caught one bigger.

And while I had a soft spot for that tom’s, romance wishes, the one thing I can’t tolerate is killin’ smallmouth fishes

Cause a smallmouth is the best of fish, if you all are askin’ me.  The pride of Ozark rivers, they should always be set free.

So across that river valley you could hear my shotgun roar, as I blasted that old gobbler, so he wouldn’t fish no more.

Now in my basement freezer I have ducks and squirrel and jerky, and some crappie and some walleye, and a smallmouth-poachin’ turkey

The moral of this story is, all poems ought to rhyme, and one thing about poets is… you can’t believe them half the time.

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