The Hunters of Ducks Poem
(From: Our Sport – Market Hunting, by Charles Sawyer)
The hunters of ducks are a crazy breed –
A hole in the mud is all they need –
A place to hide from a flying duck
In eighty acres of smelly muck.
The roads are bumpy – in rain, they walk,
But the duck hunter will never squawk,
Then he slips in mud and wets his rear,
He won’t complain, ‘cause he’s a nut!
If it were not so, he’d stay with his wife
And give his children a chance in life,
Instead of cavorting around, by heck –
And becoming a useless swivel-neck.
The hike from the truck to the beat up blind
Would sag an elephant’s behind.
They wade in slime that would bog a flea
Like a bunch of bums with housemaid’s knee!
They stagger and stumble and sweat and swear
When the flashlight shows they’re halfway there.
They grasp for breath and their muscles crack,
They hope they won’t get a heart attack.
They fling decoys from sodden sacks,
And ninety percent land on their backs.
Then they stumble and fall in the hole
With a crick in the back, but joy in the soul.
Then they wait for dawn, all crampled and grim,
Hoping to hell the ducks come in,
Their eyes burn out in the midday glare,
And duck lice delve in their thinning hair.
They hunt for cripples with a galloping tread
And get back to the blind so damn near dead
That their duck calls sound like a weak Bronx cheer
While the biting wind causes their eyes to tear.
I say it’s wicked for a man with brains
To risk his life in fog and rain,
To wreck his muscles and damn his soul
Just to squat in the mud of a slimy hole.
Would I ruin my health and risk my life
And get in bed with the little wife,
Just to sit in a blind and suffer pain
In snow and wind and sleeting rain?
Would I spend my
money and waste my time,
And listen to lies in the winter time?
Would I do all these things no sane man should?
BROTHER, YOU’RE DANG RIGHT I WOULD!
The Hunters of Ducks
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