FunVerse #8

Here's the story, told by Jon himself:
Hey dudes and dudettes,

Saturday afternoon I had a good day out hunting turkeys. Walking through the woods, came up toward an open field, and I could see a few heads right at the edge of the field. I sneaked up through the woods, and got within about 30 yards. There were about 4 or 5 turkeys. Picked out one that I thought had a beard, and shot. But there wasn’t any wing flapping or flopping around, like a typical turkey dying. In fact the turkeys just jumped up in the air about six feet, fluttered back to the ground, and went back to eating.

I stood there for ten more minutes trying to see if there was a dead bird on the ground, but I couldn’t see one. So I pulled up and shot again (and missed), but the birds stayed again. So I shot again, and this time I knew by the flapping that I had killed a bird.

When I went over to the field, there were two dead jakes, both around 17 or 18 lbs. They’re young gobblers, kinda like teenagers. I tagged one and took it home, called a friend and asked if I could fill his tag, went back and brought the other one home. (5/15/06)

And here's the poem I wrote to commemorate the occasion:
Title: Two Jakes for the Price of Three
Alternate Title 1: One Jake Shy of a Hat Trick
Alternate Title 2: Good Thing I Had Three Shells With Me
Alternate Title 3: Was It Shot #1, Shot #2 or Shot #3?

Jon took his gun into the woods
To hunt some turkeys wild.
He walked o'er wood, dale, glade, and glen
The wind was calm and mild.

Just then he spied beneath some trees
A gang of gobblers bunching,
Just four or five (or forty-five)
A-pecking and a-munching.

Jon peered through scope, took careful aim
And squeezed a careful shot:
The gobblers rose into the air
And headed eastward, not!

"What's this?" He cried inside his brain,
"Have turkeys gone plumb crazy?
They settled back onto the ground!
Perhaps they're just plain lazy."

He wonders if he hit one, if,
Perhaps, it's wounded sore.
He looks for flopping, flapping, but--
They simply peck some more.

Ten times it sweeps, the second hand.
His bloodshot eyes have bags.
He peers through leaves, he strains some more,
His shoulder droops and sags.

"I must have missed!" says he to self,
"No birds have yet been toasted!
A second shot I'll venture now,
And soon one will be roasted."

As echoes of the second blast
Went ringing round the glade
Those cotton-pickin' turkey birds--
Amazingly, they stayed.

Again he held his breath and watched
To see one bite the dust
But nary feather-flop was seen
"I must get one, I must!"

"I cannot understand what's up,"
Said he to no one close,
"It mystifies me why they stay,
Perhaps they are morose."

His hands were shaking, shoulder sore,
As in his bag of ammo,
He placed his hand. One shell! One chance!
To make his gun say blammo.

"Third time's a charm," he told himself,
And as he drew a bead
On all those feisty turkey-birds,
His finger did the deed:

And blam! The shotgun roared its fire!
And wham! The turkeys fled!
And zoom! Jon rushed to claim his prize!
And hey! Here's one that's dead!

"But wait!" he muttered to thin air,
"Could I have been mistaken?
This pile of beaks, wings, beards, and claws
Means two birds have been taken!"

"My first two shots, I'm pretty sure
Missed every bird completely!
That must mean on my shot the third,
Two jakes were downed quite neatly!"

"Oh no," he gasped, quite pointlessly,
Since no one was around,
"I've run 'a-fowl' of hunting laws,
By hunting laws I'm bound."

"My hunting tag is only good
For one bird on a tag!
I've got it now! I'll check with Fred!
He never fills his bag!"

And so Jon tagged the larger bird
(No need to take a chance).
Soon back he came, Fred's tag in hand
To dance the two-fer dance.

The moral of this hunting tale,
Inside my mind's a-buzzin':
At two jakes for the price of three,
You can't afford a dozen!