Deer Hunter's Blues

Sitting up in a tree, with your oranges on
And your fingers so stiff they feel they’d just snap
If you push on them wrong--and you love it like that
You make every move as slow as you can
You keep your eyes open, your breathe soft and shallow
You cradle your Twelve Gauge, she’s as sweet as a baby
And then it’s a Ten-Point, and I don’t mean maybe!
He’s nibbling the leaves, he’s looking around
An Indian Prince, a discrete apparition:
His coat is so perfect you’re not sure if you see him
Except for his nose and his sparkling eye
You breathe even softer, he moves even closer
A breeze brushes your face, a leaf falls between you
You look down the barrel, drop your sight in the notch
You steady your shoulder, you click off the safety
(Bridge) And right at that moment, lasting nearly forever
You see millions and millions and millions and millions of barbeque grills
And millions of guys in plaid shirts and aprons
And millions of TVs with bright football games
And millions of cars going millions and millions of places
With millions of drivers with dour grim faces…
And after that moment is finally gone
And you look down the sights, Mr. Buck has done vanished
Like a rainbow, if you happen to turn your head for a second
(break here)
The sun’s finally up now, and the forest floor’s steaming
And you take one last sip and stuff your flask back in your pocket
And climb down the planks you nailed up on that tree
And walk out of the woods, and head on down to the Xrds
For a Pepsi, some Nabs, and a daily newspaper