He’s young, he’s old, quite shy or bold, tall or short, his work – his sport.

Manner clean, with senses keen, his body strong from days quite long.

 

He thinks for us from a faraway place, while our foolish acts never change his face.

When food is served, he’s the last to eat, his favourite dish – some kind of meat.

 

Before we dine, he’ll pour the wine, ring the bell or raise some hell.

Voice gentle and calm in another tongue, on the ladder of life, he’s up one rung.

 

When in the bush, he’s like the breeze, unseen, unheard and ready to freeze.

Our unfinished kills call on his skill, then he’ll sort out our mess by force or will.

 

Use a tracker if needed, no detail unheeded, heavy rifle at ready, his aim quite steady.

When your “shit is booked” he’ll take the hook, risk his own life so you don’t widow your wife. 

 

This man among men scores a perfect ten, does all things well as you can tell.

Our every need for us he’ll tend, and he’ll be our friend till the bloody end!