I Knew Where He roosted, and I’d Be There that Evening.

In Price’s Bottom Fields, just after first light

I called up a hen and started a fight.

Cutting and cackling, putting and cussing

We went back and forth ‘till we tired of fussing.

 

Then a gobble rang out from across the creek

And in the blink of an eye I was off on the sneak.

I took off my shoes and my socks in a flash

Then slid down the bank, my best not to splash.

The ice-cold water came over my waist

But the bird was hot and I had to make haste.

 

I crawled through the privet, briars and muck

‘Till I finally caught glimpse of my tom in full strut.

I sent out the notes of a seductive young hen

And the old bird gobbled again and again.

 

Finally, I accepted that he just wasn’t coming

As he just stood there strutting, spitting and drumming.

 The last thing I saw was his feathery butt

As he went the other way, still in full strut.

 

But as I laid there shivering, cold and wet

I knew I wasn’t done with that ol’ bird just yet.

I grinned to myself as I watched him leaving

I knew where he roosted, and I’d be there that evening.