Fowl Play Poem by Rod Morris

If you're on holiday in New Zealand and it's the month of May,
Shooting season has commenced gung-ho boys are out to play.
You see maimai camouflage huts on lakeside banks and creeks,
Some of them are so five-star, to build them it took weeks.
The tenants arrive at crack of dawn; they're up before the sun,
Each and every one of them has brought his prized shotgun.
Thermos flasks and chillybins packed with morning tucker,
Cartridge belts full of shells beside the mans duck-clucker.
Each one has brought along a dog to retrieve what he will kill,
Stories start to circulate of each mans best friend and skill.
Sun peeks through those pink-grey clouds; mist above the water,
Eyes scan skyward expectantly seeking unwary fowl to slaughter.
Life in May is deadly for Drakes down on their luck,
Who in their right mind would want to be a duck?