Imagine a couple of backwoods hillbillies goin' hunting.

“Eddie, is ‘dis pot for sittin’,
I aim to do some s---ting?”

“Ern, I’m chawing and spitting.
Yorn arse is too big for ‘dis pot!”

Wicked winds howl in the night as men prowl
carnivorously creeping in the forests for prey.
Wisened wild ones still as mannequins stand
choosing survival for yet another fine day.
The words they long to hear weave into their ears
“too big for the pot” . . . they say that a lot.
Unfortunately they’ve mistaken its’ meaning
and puff themselves up to prance in moonbeams.

“Ern, MOVE! I'm a'drooling!
‘Dis here pot ain’t for sittin’,
ain’t for pee or for s---ting!
I’m chawin’. It’s for spitting!
Yorn hide is too big for ‘de pot!”

Shimmering twinkles of dewdrops glisten anew
with the birth of a new dawn, a cry rises aloud.
The report of a rifle rebounds, another animal down;
diehards of the forest slink, turn spectator crowd.
The elk, monstrously strong and heavy, should be
“too big for the pot” but somehow he’s not!
They’re unable to comprehend woodsmen--
animals don’t spit or s--- in 'de pot!