Family Memories
Stories and Poems

'TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE HUNTING

Spikehorn Camp Hunt Tale

'Twas the night before hunting and all through the camp
The building was musty, the bedding was damp.
The dishes were dirty, the outhouse ice cold
But the morrow held promise of joy to unfold.

The boys were all gathered with cards and with beer
They knew that a card game would fill them with cheer.
The bottles were opened, the cards were all dealt
When an awful commotion commenced to be felt.

Chairs were upset, drinks were spilled on the floor
As everyone scrambled to get to the door.
To see what was making those horrible sounds
Disrupting the stillness and scaring the hounds.

There sat long Stretch in his battered old truck
With chains on the tires in case he got stuck.
The fenders were flapping, the doors were jammed shut
And the muffler he'd left in some rather deep rut.

The boys were unhappy this clatter to hear
Aware that the racket might scare off the deer.
"Wise up' yelled out Dolly "right on" slurred poor Tinker
(It's really too bad he's become such a drinker).

The card game's back on, it seems Pepper's ahead
His nose has got bluer, his ears are all red.
Hop-Sing is in stitches, he thinks it quite funny
That Pepper has cleaned up on all of Tom's money.

John and Pappy are sick, their brains all a clutter
From listening to the Senator snivel and splutter.
About how the country has gone to the dogs
Under Trudeau, Lalonde and the rest of the frogs.

Dale and Hayseed are sitting a little apart
(They don't mix with the rest, as they're not very smart).
Hayseed's shifting gears there's a big hill ahead
Dale just caught a football high over his head.

Old Ruck and J.G. are reliving their youth
Making thousand yard shots, without care for the truth.
Deer killed by the plum trees, and more by the claypit
They're up to their eyebrows in each other's bullshit.

Wink's having a rest, he's the cook for the crew
Fries eggs to perfection and makes a mean stew.
They're depending on him to get meat for the pot
He's regarded with awe lie's one hell of a shot.

In the camp the snow drifted in through the cracks
Oh surely the morning will show lots of tracks.
This cheers little Doot (of the bunch he's the runt)
But he's also the one boy who's come here to hunt.

The other's are here for the time of their lives
For this one week to get far away from their wives.
To drink whisky, play cards and grow hair on their faces
Then complain that of deer they saw very few traces.

They play cards all night long and sleep most of the day
And complain that the deer must be far, far away.
And when later the last ringing shot has been heard
They whine that the forestry have ruined the deer herd.

They'll be back here next year at the Spikehorn Hunt Camp
With Grover, and Digger and Rex who's the champ.
To track down that buck, with horns nicely curled
And forget that they have any cares in the world.

by Wink Stewart