Oh, Deer. That time of year again....

When the air turns crisp and cool

And daylight hours burn brief,
Our menfolk rise at dark
And disappear into the leaves.

“Where did daddy go today?”

I imagine you may ask;
And this is how I will explain
The ritual of his task.

There’s a time each autumn

(According to the law)
When many guys (and some gals)
Don camo or coveralls;

They drive their trucks or ATVs

Through woodlands dark and dense,
Then scale a tree or hide below –
Whichever makes most sense.

At this point, methods differ

In the way they draw a buck;
some hunters count on method,
and some on plain dumb luck.

Some stake out location

Based on patterns long observed;
They lay out tasty nibbly things
That deer think they deserve,

And then with stealth and steel resolve,

They sit like dolls of wood
All doused in acrid, smelly things
Which whitetails love (or should?),

Then taste the air and hold their breath

And sit with their bow steadied,
For when that ten point wanders up,
They won’t freak out.  They’re ready.

Now I feel I should warn you,

Not everyone’s this way.
There are a few, you’ll no doubt find,
Are dumb as goats that graze.

Some choose to use this season

To get raging, stinking drunk –
Now how would some wise wild thing
Be drawn in with eau de skunk?

Some hunters spit and stomp around

Like Elmer Fudd, but worse –
Then ne’er suspect their raucous ways
Are why their hunt seems cursed.

Then some will use all great outdoors

As their own pers’nal john –
Well, good grief, man!  Go squat at home
Without your coveralls on!

Now that I’ve told you all of this,

I will offer you a choice:
Go malling with the ladies,
Or go hunting with the boys.

Which e’er adventure suits you, dear,
Is fine and well and cute.
Like most southern girls, you’ll learn
Both how to shop and shoot.

‘Cause when you live in Arkansas
(Where deer scraps litter each yard)
These are the things you learn to do.
 
That’s just the way things are.