The Old Hunt Camp

My hunt camp is a dirty place, some may say a real disgrace, no linens, drapes, or table lace.

But fabric harbours old smells and flies, from greasy guys and old French fries.

The sofa will quickly tell (by its rancid and fetid smell) of its long lived hell.

And all the fixtures need repair, broken chairs, cast-off items in despair.

Empty wrappers, half-drunk beers, every surface has oily smears, but no one hears.

The floor is waxed with fallen meat, has slurped shots of whiskey neat, and splintered many smelly feet.

The window screens are gone or slashed, glass is smashed, Windex never splashed.

‘Round the table are the smoky guys, all retelling long told lies while shooing countless flies.

Bleary, bearded, sunburnt faces, teetering at their places, discarding social graces.

Then the grub is served, all well-deserved, and a brief silence is observed.

But soon it’s time to deal a round, or settle down, or act the clown.

And bouncing off the filthy walls, the sound of brawls, and poker calls.

The ceiling in its dusky cloak from sundry smokes begins to croak

As hunters ascend to their beds, doff blazing threads and lay spinning heads.

Shortly all are sawing logs, snorting hogs, sleeping dogs.

And then sometime well before the dawn, a chorus of groaning yawns, coffee’s on!

Hacks, coughs, farts, stink, shattered dreams at 39 winks, too darn early hunters think,

Ignoring all the random pain, and rolling out of bunk again, sun or rain. And head out for another day, blasting all the birds away, (the moose are safe I would say).

Returning when our feet are too cold to stamp, flinging clothes around all damp

Jeez, how we love this camp!

Murray Lackie,

Creemore.