'Twas the night after hunting and all through the Nest
The hunters were resting in Uggs and orange vests.
Their faces were lit by the glow from the box,
Red-state visions of sugarplums served up by Fox.

The tweeties were hung by their beaks from sharp nails,
All heavily burdened by lead in their tails.
Yet one on the ground which was shy, though quite dead,
Had turned tail-to 'cause he hadn't a head.

All day the twelve hunters had thrashed through the grain.
"Hep, hep! C'mon birds!" had been their refrain.
The drivers had driven, the blockers had blocked;
Pseudo-dog Sparkie chased deer through the stalks.

"On Rodgers, on Wally, Marc, Marc, Mike, Mike, Lenny!
On Dead-eye Dick, Chris, Johnny Blue-state, and Nandy!
To the edge of the fields... CRP, corn, and soy!!"
They flushed out the birds which were then dropped by Roy.

Back to the Nest where a hot repast waits;
Farmer-sized portions piled high on the plates.
True hunters, like Ruark or Hemingway (Papa),
Stalked and dispatched a once-full bottle of Grappa.