The Old Trapper Shack (POEM)
The old trapper shack of old man Jack,
It rips pages out of time.
The creaking walls and shaggy sheets,
Tell’n a story of a mountain man in his prime.
The fishin pack hanging on the wall,
Old as his fishing pole.
I look in awe as I know inside,
This fishing pack packed his soul.
With fishing rod and pack in hand,
Trapper Jack he lived his life.
With traps on back and a mountain stack,
He thrived in wilderness with little strife.
He loved his Lord and possibly his Remington more,
He carrassed it more than any maiden.
With buckshot loaded 24/7
He provided a dinner table that was laden.
Venison, squirrel and duck galore.
Many fish bones in his soup.
He prided himself on self sufficiency,
Never want’n to be with no group.
Trapper Jack was never a lonely man.
For you see, he loved his freedom best.
His ruggedness, like his whiskered beard,
Made his run from all the rest.
He climbed them hills to the timberline,
He never turned his head.
Because he knew if he ever did,
His heart’d break and he’d be dead.
Trapper Jack knew one thing most,
He knew men needed ’em hills.
But unfortunately in 2017,
Young men seem to need’em pills.
Wake up now and smell’em woods
Go visit Trapper Jack’s shack.
If you do it quickly,
I am sure Trapper Jack’ll be back.
~ L. Davis, #thepoetfarmer