The birds may fly, and the deer may roam,
At least until we’re here not home.
Our guns are oiled, we smell like piss,
May we shoot straight and never miss.
We stalk the fields and trees out yonder,
“Please bring game” not time to ponder.
Bring any condition a man can bear,
‘Cause at last we’re out of the Old Rib’s hair.
[This message has been edited by LoudestWHOOP! (edited 9/4/2007 1:28p).]