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No Shitbird. No Spooky,

No Rudolph, No Hurley.

Putting out those deer stands,

made the Old Farts surely!

No deer were taken,

during the regular season.

It was too windy and warm,

I think that was the reason.

It had nothing to do,

with our deer hunting skill.

Or the seven jugs of Crown,

we managed to swill!!

It had nothing to do,

with time spent on the couch.

Or the contents within,

that purple pouch!

It had nothing to do,

with luck, charm or fate.

The number of cocktails,

does not equate!

We all saw the prey,

I saw two flag.

But the ass of a deer,

is nothing to brag!

Rudolph had his chances,

as did Shitbird and Groaner.

But the excuses were as limp,

as an Old Farts boner!!

Oh sure you could say,

we weren't up to the task.

But what's the objective?

I have to ask.

Was it the killing of deer?

Or was it the fun to be had?

If drinking whiskey

was our mission,

we didn't do bad!

And what about the food?

Man was it great.

Deep fried turkey,

heaped on your plate!

Shitbird dressing,

and cheesy hashbrown.

And those egg McPauls,

that are world renown!

Steak and veni,

from last years venue,

were some of the entree's

on this years menu!

But all is not lost,

for those with a plan.

If you're a muzzle load hunter,

you're a real man!

We've one more chance,

to slay us a buck.

If that damn gun fires,

I will consider it luck!

In this years hunt,

we can take us a doe.

So come-on Deer Gods,

Let's get on with the show!

Thank you guys,

for being my friend.

I'm running out of B.S.

so this poem must end.

By The Jimmer