Hawk Stew

by Ch'erie

When I was just a weein
a mere lass of three maybe four

My other old Grandpappy
Would rise late from his night on the floor

Little supplies in the house
so out would come the rifle

whatever flew over head
was shot down, but not for trifle

Twas usually a bedraggled circling Hawk
that ended up in the pot

No one dared eat that mess
Mother swore that in the head he was shot

The smell of that scavening bird
cooking on the stove for hours

Not even the pungent cloves
could mask the smell, let alone flowers

A time or two when Hawks were scarce
unsuspecting Possums would grace the pot

We'd always excuse ourselves
leave him to the freakin lot

I don't know how he lived so long
with a diet to end all cuisine

All I know was he lived till 80 odd
still tall, thin and keen

Nary a grey hair graced his head
till one leg in grave and other on banana skin

Always on his lip he wore a rolly
so a stroke took his life within

AHHH he was a strange old bloke
eatin Hawks n Possums all his life

But he'd hold my hand strong and tight
Hawkeyed, lest I wandered near to strife.

Ch'erie de Perrott
Copyright 2007

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