A city feller stopped his carA bit beyond my lane.
He walked the gravel to the house,
My thoughts to ascertain.
“I heard your rifle’s loud report,”The city feller said,
“About a mile north of here,
And wondered who was dead.”
“Well, Aunt Jemimah, Uncle Ben,And Mr. Boyardee
Have gone to meet their Maker’s wrath,”
I said, and slapped my knee.
That city feller’s sense of funWas badly underused.
He stood there mute, like made of stone,
For he was not amused.
“Now they was just a plastic jar,
A cardboard box and can,”
I felt compelled to explicate
To Easter Island man.
“You gave me quite a little scare,”He said in somber tone.
“It sounded like I stumbled on
A rural combat zone.”
“And why on earth should folks like youOwn guns that shoot like that?
You wouldn’t use it on a buck,
A hog or mountain cat.”
I paused enough to calm myself,And looked him in his whites.
I said, “This weapon here I keep
To help defend my rights.”
“And if some city slicker comesTo take my guns away,
He better come prepared to hear
My rifle have its say.”
At which, the Easter Island manBecame a swift gazelle,
And made for regions down the lane
From whence I work and dwell.
Enjoyment of the type I feltI maybe ought foreswear,
But I enjoy the backs of those
Who scorn my right to bear.