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Wednesday, December 23, 2009

The Southern Migration of the Camo Colored Beer Bellied Bud Sucker

Nothing going on today, we decide to leave for the coast tomorrow morning. My last poem I wrote after taking note of all the "so called' hunters every season who head down to the Texas hill country to "hunt" deer. I have nothing against real hunting and have shot many, many deer back when I used to go hunting......but what these yahoos in their 3/4 ton 4 wheel drive  trucks towing trailers of 4 wheelers and Kawasaki Mules, wearing head to toe camouflage, so they can RIDE from their deer cabin straight to their HEATED deer stands that have been "scouted" all summer with digital game CAMERAS and solar TIMED feeders that attract deer the same time each day to their stand so that they can then be shot with over powered 7mm MAGNUMS........IS NOT HUNTING!!!! Most of these idiots have TEXAS TROPHY HUNTER decals on their truck windows and pay 3-5 THOUSAND dollars to hunt on a FENCED in game preserve with biologists on staff to "manage" the all but captive animals! Like most things that start out as a perfectly good way to enjoy the outdoors has turned into a big business catering to those people stupid and rich enough to buy into this nonsense and call themselves outdoorsman! I doubt if any of them have ever overnighted in the woods in all their lives!

The So Called Hunters

I see them almost every season
Why they kill I see no reason
They are so fat, it’s not for food
Maybe to boost a macho mood?
The solar feeder, it’s seeds abound
Same time each day sprays food around
So deer will gather at it’s feet
This “hunter” sits on a cozy seat
Only fifty yards and through his scope
Of 9X power and still he hopes
That he can hit that buck and put it in the bag
And around a campfire with beer and brag
To all who will listen he will tell
Such tales of tracking and shot so well
How he bagged that buck and packed it out
No need to say in a "four by "Scout
I used to hunt and quite a lot
But quickly found a sport it’s not
When deer are taught a timer’s dance
Scoped magnums roar, they have no chance
They can have it all, I want no part
I just wish the deer would start
To learn to shoot and get them first
Those so-called “hunters” with blood thirst


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