Ode to the Professional Hunter

- Bob Windaur -


He's young, he's old, quite shy, or bold

Tall or short, his work - his sport.

Manner clean, with senses keen,

His body strong, from days quite long


He thinks for us from a faraway place,

While our foolish acts, never change his face.

When food is served, he is last to eat

His favourite dish - some kind of meat.


Before we dine, he'll pour the wine,

Ring the bell, or raise some hell.

Voice gentle and calm, in another tongue,

On the ladder of life, he's up one rung.


When in the bush, he's like the breeze,

Unseen, unheard and ready to freeze.

Our unfinished kills, call on his skill,

and he sorts out our mess, by force or will.


Use a tracker if needed, no detail unheeded

Heavy rifle at ready, his aim quite steady.

When your "shit is booked", he'll take the hook

risk his own life, so you don't widow your wife.


This man among men, scores the perfect ten,

Does all things well, as you can tell.

Every need, for us he'll tend,

and he'll be our friend, till the bloody end!

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