‘Twas the night before deer season when all thru the land,

Thousands of hunters were stirring and throwing gear in their vans.

I was polishing my bino’s lenses with care,

In the hopes that a ten point buck would soon be there.

 

When out on the street there arose quite a clatter,

I sprang from my bedroom to see what was the matter.

Away to my rifle I flew like a gazelle,

I opened the bolt and stuffed in a shell.

 

The moon and the stars were as white as new snow,

They gave a luster of mid-day to objects below.

When what roared up the driveway near,

‘Twas a Chevy van, and nine hunters for deer.

 

Out jumped the driver, he looked ready for fun,

I knew in a moment it must be Paul Wilson.

More rapid than turtles his partners they out came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:

 

Now Lee!  Now Kevin!  Now Tim and Jesse!

On Jimmy!  On Derrich!  On Larry and Eddy!

To the back door we did go of the van,

And stuffed my gear, stuffed my gear, stuffed my gear in!

 

Then away to the deer lease did we all fly,

And dressed in the van, to beat the light sky.

Up to the tower blinds and tripods we flew,

A van full of men’s toys, and ten hunters, too.

 

It wasn’t thirty minutes after I settled in my seat,

that I heard the prancing and pawing of little deer feet.

As I shouldered my rifle, and was turning around,

Out a twelve point buck came with a bound.

 

He was adorned with brown fur, from his head to his thigh,

And his antlers were gleaming, like a Neon sign.

With two kickers that reached all the way to his back,

He looked like a bush, my God, what a rack!

 

His brow tines how they twinkled! His main beams how merry!

But I saw in an instant that his senses were wary.

His soot black nose was drawn up like a bow,

And the backside of his tail was as white as new snow.

 

So I centered my crosshairs on his neck with great care,

Squeezed off a shot and heard a sound like a mad bear.

He dropped in his tracks, not a step did he take,

I let out a bellow, that sounded like an earthquake.

 

I tagged him and dressed him and hung his feet up high,

His brown pelt came off with forty strokes of my knife.

Then I contemplated how to butcher, for experience I had none,

Up roared the Chevy van and out jumped Paul Wilson.

 

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

And trimmed off the back strap to make into jerk.

And laying the meat aside in the fridge,

And giving a nod, he went to his van by the ridge.

 

He sprang into his seat, to his partners gave a whistle,

And away we flew to our stands again like the down on a thistle.

And I heard him exclaim as we drove out of sight,

“Good deer hunting to all and to all a good night.”