waksupi
10-23-2012, 03:56 PM
I may have posted this in the past, but came across it again on my computer this weekend.
A poem I wrote for a friend a few years ago....
This is for all who have ever dry balled a muzzle loader.
King Arthur
A man had come to try his luck,
Amoung friends old and new,
His confidence was high
The day would be his,
If only his aim held true.
A lovely day at the firing line,
Prepared for a day of fun.
There's laughter and jesting,
Attention is lost,
Oops! Dry ball number one!
No worries, says he.
This is not a common thing,
I still plan to have my share of fun.
Just saving powder,
He jests with friends,
With no powder in my gun!
No thought of mishap crosses his mind,
As he continues down the trail
No clue to him, at this very time,
He was entering a personal hell.
He carefully aims, no twitch in sight,
His hold deadly, straight, and true,
His hammer falls, the cap goes pop.
Sonofagun!
Dry ball number two!
Impossible! A travesty!
No luck like this exists!
If this keeps up, as I go along
I will certainly be pissed!
He walked up to the firing line,
Confident as could be.
No way, no how, no, not again!
Dry ball number three!
It's over now,
I know it's poor luck.
Today it is just happening to me.
No more dry balls,
As I finish the shoot,
As bad luck travels in threes!
He trembles in fear,
As the shoot goes on,
As his rifle fires faithfully,
If powder goes, before the ball,
The rifle works for thee.
Another target arises,
He takes it full in stride,
He ignores the giggles, the jokes, the taunts,
They can not jar his pride.
Curses now flow, the day is lost
As he calls his rifle a *****,
Revenge comes quick from his insulted rifle.
Ha ha! Dry ball number four.
By now poor Art is a terrible wreck,
No sympathy in sight.
How had it happened?
How did he go wrong?
Hard liqour would flow this night!
The trail grows short,
The sun grows high,
Out shooting with his tribe,
Oh! The shame!
Did it happen again?
Dry ball number five.
With head hung low, and eyes downcast,
Rifle dragging in his trail.
A tear is shed, and from him is heard,
An awful, anguished wail.
His wife is a kind, and gentle soul,
And was full of sympathy.
She told no one with in the camp,
Well, maybe she told me...
A dynasty lost,
A new king has a-rose,
Among the ranks of dry ball fame.
Now in nights grown long
At the campfires last light,
Is whispered in awe, a name.
For Arthur is now, truly a king,
Amongst the ranks so bright.
And it's told in hushed tones,
How he suffered and moaned,
And wandered off into the night.
So beware my friend,
Of confidence high,
This could happen to you.
Art is a grey beard,
No pilgrim here,
A mountain man, tried, and true.
Though no powder was burned,
The tail could easily be turned,
And misery could follow you.
So be kind in your words,
As you congratulate Art
Because the next time,
YOU could be screwed!
A poem I wrote for a friend a few years ago....
This is for all who have ever dry balled a muzzle loader.
King Arthur
A man had come to try his luck,
Amoung friends old and new,
His confidence was high
The day would be his,
If only his aim held true.
A lovely day at the firing line,
Prepared for a day of fun.
There's laughter and jesting,
Attention is lost,
Oops! Dry ball number one!
No worries, says he.
This is not a common thing,
I still plan to have my share of fun.
Just saving powder,
He jests with friends,
With no powder in my gun!
No thought of mishap crosses his mind,
As he continues down the trail
No clue to him, at this very time,
He was entering a personal hell.
He carefully aims, no twitch in sight,
His hold deadly, straight, and true,
His hammer falls, the cap goes pop.
Sonofagun!
Dry ball number two!
Impossible! A travesty!
No luck like this exists!
If this keeps up, as I go along
I will certainly be pissed!
He walked up to the firing line,
Confident as could be.
No way, no how, no, not again!
Dry ball number three!
It's over now,
I know it's poor luck.
Today it is just happening to me.
No more dry balls,
As I finish the shoot,
As bad luck travels in threes!
He trembles in fear,
As the shoot goes on,
As his rifle fires faithfully,
If powder goes, before the ball,
The rifle works for thee.
Another target arises,
He takes it full in stride,
He ignores the giggles, the jokes, the taunts,
They can not jar his pride.
Curses now flow, the day is lost
As he calls his rifle a *****,
Revenge comes quick from his insulted rifle.
Ha ha! Dry ball number four.
By now poor Art is a terrible wreck,
No sympathy in sight.
How had it happened?
How did he go wrong?
Hard liqour would flow this night!
The trail grows short,
The sun grows high,
Out shooting with his tribe,
Oh! The shame!
Did it happen again?
Dry ball number five.
With head hung low, and eyes downcast,
Rifle dragging in his trail.
A tear is shed, and from him is heard,
An awful, anguished wail.
His wife is a kind, and gentle soul,
And was full of sympathy.
She told no one with in the camp,
Well, maybe she told me...
A dynasty lost,
A new king has a-rose,
Among the ranks of dry ball fame.
Now in nights grown long
At the campfires last light,
Is whispered in awe, a name.
For Arthur is now, truly a king,
Amongst the ranks so bright.
And it's told in hushed tones,
How he suffered and moaned,
And wandered off into the night.
So beware my friend,
Of confidence high,
This could happen to you.
Art is a grey beard,
No pilgrim here,
A mountain man, tried, and true.
Though no powder was burned,
The tail could easily be turned,
And misery could follow you.
So be kind in your words,
As you congratulate Art
Because the next time,
YOU could be screwed!