Alas, ‘tis time for mortal
men
To bellar and drink, we fear.
The air is sharp hauled in their lungs
And all their piss runs clear.
They shout and sing, and belch their drinks,
Stumble round in frozen ruts.
Call down the moon, push all about,
And scratch their hairy butts.
Now, if you’re sane, you will not go
Where men in ruttin’ season gather.
For only fools and desperate whores
Would venture near that slather.
‘Tis not the sound that tears you up,
Nor fear of limb, or virtue,
But rather ‘tis the smell at dawn
That sure as hell will hurt you.
So stay away or join right in.
Just know there is no reason.
Your very life is in your hands
With men in ruttin’ season.
Yet a closer look reveals the hour
When they gather close to share
All the stories old and tales so bold
Of callin’ moose and huntin’ bear.
Cocktails flow and fresh meat sizzles
As a well-known story grows.
The smoke curls low and wafts about,
All hope for a trackin’ snow.
Cards snap out as dealt around
An eager hand of poker,
While others stand and listen well
To another real life “joker”.
He does a step and struts about.
You’re guaranteed a show.
Though he’s told this one a dozen times
Not one gets up to go.
He bends real low and gives that call.
The whole damn camp is wondrin’
If maybe this time “Gagnon” will have
A hundred moose come runnin’!
The stories of war told by the old
And tales of hunters gone,
With rolling laughter and tear filled eyes,
They talk until the dawn.
Now I have sat amongst these men
And real friendship is the reason,
These men gladly leave it all behind
To bond in ruttin’ season.
So, if you’ve love of man an’ beast,
And can tell a tale or two,
Come tip your cup and linger near,
For this is the best you’ll do.
Leave the women home,
Kiss the children dear,
And say how you hate to leave ‘em,
Then run like hell to the huntin’ camps,
And savor ruttin’ season!
