Whose fields these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his fields fill up with turkeys.
My little son must think it queer
To hunt without a permission here
Between the woods and pasture land
During the first turkey hunt of the year.
I push the button on my electronic call
Just to here the gobble of a young jake
And when the warden pulls up
I will ask if there is some mistake.
The fields are lovely, green and posted.
But I have fines to pay,
And miles of community service before I sleep,
And miles of community service before I sleep
No comments:
Post a Comment