He's young, he's old, quite shy or bold,
Tall or short, his work - his sport.
Manner clean, with senses keen,
His body strong from days quite long.
He think for us from a faraway place,
While our foolish acts never change his face.
When food is served, he's the last to eat,
His favourite dish - some kind of meat
Before we dine, he'll pour the wine,
Ring the bell or raise some hell.
Voice gentle and calm in another tongue,
On the ladder of life, he's up one rung
When in the bush, he's like the breeze,
Unseen, unheard, and ready to freeze.
Our unfinished kills call on his skill,
Then he'll sort out our mess by force of will.
Use a tracker if needed, no detail unheeded,
Heavy rifle at ready, his aim quite steady
When your "shit is booked" he'll take the hook,
Risk his’ own life so you don't widow your wife.
This man among men scores a perfect ten,
Does all things well as you can tell
Our every need for us he'll tend,
And he'll be our friend till the bloody end!
Bob Windaur
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