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. ; )
Peteroo's Blog 