PORKY AND THE BLOCKHOUSE BUCK a mostly true story
When Porky went to bait his stand One frigid autumn morn, All he carried in his hand Was a bucket full of corn.
The Blockhouse Buck let out a snort, Stomped his feet, and attacked, But Porky’s not the retreating sort, He took not one step back.
No gun, no bow, no hunting knife Was with him on that trail, All he had to defend his life Was a flimsy plastic pail.
Porky swung the pail, but missed, The buck tried for a gore, Then Porky connected with his fist, And that enraged the Buck some more.
For Porky could not know that day, As he marched along that path, That he would face, to his dismay, A Mighty Whitetail’s wrath.
The Buck backed up and charged again, Porky feinted to his right, The Buck fell for it, so that was when Porky swung with all his might.
The Blockhouse Buck was strong that year, The Rut was at its peak, Doe fever had erased his fear, He’d rutted hard all week.
Porky’s aim was on that time, He hit the Big Buck’s nose, But an upward sweep of sharpened tines Tore the buttons from his clothes.
He was the King around Blockhouse Lake, His crown was a massive rack, With a roundhouse and an uppercut, Young bucks would flee and does would quake, the Blockhouse Buck was stunned. At the mere sight of his track. Though Porky’s brave, he isn’t nuts, He took the chance to run. His rack was wide and thick and long, The tines were sharp and white, As Porky raced back to his truck, His neck was stout, his shoulders strong, He laughed, but with good reason, And he just loved to fight. He knew he’d meet that Blockhouse Buck again, So that’s what Porky met that day, During rifle season. The Mighty Blockhouse Buck, Porky knew then, right away, And He Did. That he’d need all his luck. End of Story.
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