by Montaina La Favette
Ernie Phillips with a huge buck
Did you ever go into a hunting camp?
When men were drying their socks
around a fire and the wood is to damp
Mice come and go in flocks
Gun rag in the pancake batter
Tobacco juice all over the floor
Don’t Misjudge it don’t seem to matter
Their just to tired to spit out the door
They set in the light of a globe-less lamp
And sip some whisky or gin
To gaze at their whiskers
You’d think they were tramps
They sleep with their neckties
My what a sin
Out on the runways
in the cold they stand
Till their noses are red as a beet
Then we hear then exclaim, ain’t nature Grand
When some wet frozen comrade the meet
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