Gray branches rattle
on a cold wintery morning.
Icy rains falling on dry dying grass.
Men dressed in orange
in mud-spattered pickups.
They're carrying shotguns.
They're carrying flasks.
They've come to drink whisky.
They've come to shoot deer.
Dealing cards by the fire
where wet socks hang steaming.
The fire needs feeding
The stew still needs stirring.
The socks still need drying.
The branches still rattle
And the bottle's still good.
That fire they're feeding
In their sock feet they're dealing
and pouring out whisky
while the fire still roars
By that great roaring fire
They're drinking and swearing
bare branches still rattle
on a cold wintery morning.
with snow pellets falling
they'll wake and shoot deer.
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