'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house,
Not a shotgun was stirring, not even for grouse.
The shells were all packed by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.
The hunters were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of pheasants danced in their heads.
And me with my camo, and Goosemaster too,
Had just settled down with a flask of warm brew.
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tripped on my decoys and fell with a crash.
The moon on the snow with its bright, frosty glow,
Revealed something strange in the yard down below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a Chevy Suburban, with pheasants as gear!
With a jolly old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than mallards his pheasants, they came,
And he whistled and shouted and called them by name:
“Now Rooster! Now Hen! Now Copper and Gold!
On Feathers! On Clucker! Let’s be bold!
To the top of the barn! To the top of the blind!
Let’s show Goosemaster who’s really refined!”
As dry grass that before the wild prairie winds fly,
They flapped and they fluttered, soaring up to the sky.
And up to the rooftop the pheasants they flew,
With a Suburban of shotguns, and Santa Claus too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof,
The clatter of talons, and a loud pheasant "poof."
As I drew in my head and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Santa came with a bound.
He was dressed all in camo, from his head to his toe,
With pheasant feathers trailing like a festive tableau.
A sack full of shotguns was slung on his back,
And he chuckled as Goosemaster tripped on a tack.
“Ho ho ho!” Santa laughed, “What’s this, Goosey dear?
Too busy with rubes to handle some cheer?”
Goosemaster glared but had nothing to say,
As Santa pulled out a twelve-gauge and called it a day.
The hunters were grinning, their Christmas complete,
With pheasants and shotguns—oh, what a treat!
And I heard Santa shout as he drove out of sight,
“Happy hunting to all, and to all a good night!”
Merry Christmas everyone!
Not a shotgun was stirring, not even for grouse.
The shells were all packed by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.
The hunters were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of pheasants danced in their heads.
And me with my camo, and Goosemaster too,
Had just settled down with a flask of warm brew.
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tripped on my decoys and fell with a crash.
The moon on the snow with its bright, frosty glow,
Revealed something strange in the yard down below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a Chevy Suburban, with pheasants as gear!
With a jolly old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than mallards his pheasants, they came,
And he whistled and shouted and called them by name:
“Now Rooster! Now Hen! Now Copper and Gold!
On Feathers! On Clucker! Let’s be bold!
To the top of the barn! To the top of the blind!
Let’s show Goosemaster who’s really refined!”
As dry grass that before the wild prairie winds fly,
They flapped and they fluttered, soaring up to the sky.
And up to the rooftop the pheasants they flew,
With a Suburban of shotguns, and Santa Claus too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof,
The clatter of talons, and a loud pheasant "poof."
As I drew in my head and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Santa came with a bound.
He was dressed all in camo, from his head to his toe,
With pheasant feathers trailing like a festive tableau.
A sack full of shotguns was slung on his back,
And he chuckled as Goosemaster tripped on a tack.
“Ho ho ho!” Santa laughed, “What’s this, Goosey dear?
Too busy with rubes to handle some cheer?”
Goosemaster glared but had nothing to say,
As Santa pulled out a twelve-gauge and called it a day.
The hunters were grinning, their Christmas complete,
With pheasants and shotguns—oh, what a treat!
And I heard Santa shout as he drove out of sight,
“Happy hunting to all, and to all a good night!”
Merry Christmas everyone!
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