Dear Rambos in camos,

We tire of each aim—yours, lame and untame—that leads to a maim

As you lowly cower in mirage of foliage shower.

Hence, our intention obreptitious, while not *too* malicious,

Turns the tide of sneak onto synthetic strong from never weak.

So, if you hear a pop from field, it may be your turn to yield—

For though we live sans hunting stock, antlers *can* shish prick kebab.

Merely sincerely,

Near deer to fear. ; )