Gather round while I tell the tale
of how Dick Cheney hunted quail.
Not wild, of course, but especially bred
as easy targets for the hunters’ lead.
Dick stumbles to his SUV
keen to start his shooting spree.
If he’d kept in mind his DUIs
he’d have stuck to Coke and been seen as wise.
Still, there he is, gun at the ready,
but why is it his arm’s unsteady?
Will be up to the daunting task?
Where the heck has he put his flask?
What’s that? A shape moves in the bush,
and he’s ready now his prey to flush.
An orange quail, can that be right?
But why on earth is it not in flight?
Then there’s its size; it’s so immense.
He’d never known quite such suspense.
But this is Texas, after all,
one could hardly hope for anything small.
Ready, steady, he takes aim.
He’s always longed to bag big game.
He’s never seen a queerer bird.
It looks almost human, but that’s absurd!
It emerges now, but can this be?
It’s doubled over: on bended knee.
Something is distinctly odd;
could a quail be that well shod?
Then he sees indeed it’s humanoid
not, as he’d hoped, an anthropoid,
and he realizes with a start
that his pellets may have pierced its heart.
He wonders if he should shoot again
to free the creature from its pain.
Should he confess? No, mum’s the word.
He’ll act as if nothing has occurred.
Alas, the story soon was spread
and derision heaped upon his head.
All wondered how that man of granite
thought he could hush the shot heard round the planet.