BY THE TIME HE WAS IN THE FIELD, HE HAD LOST HIS RIFLE
One day, Jim The Poet decided that poetry was no darn good.
He was glum and depressed all day and stared out the window of his stone cabin, looking at nothing.
Suddenly, a Jackrabbit hippity hopped past his window. Jim was filled with joy.
“Poetry might not be any darn good, but hunting Jackrabbits IS darn good!”
And so Jack put on his hunting jacket, a bright orange cap, hoisted a rifle over his should and slipped a little grey pen into his breast pocket in case there was anything out there that might be worth mentioning to somebody someday.
He was so happy that he was even whistling as he closed the door to his stone cabin, but–
He was glum and depressed all day and stared out the window of his stone cabin, looking at nothing.
Suddenly, a Jackrabbit hippity hopped past his window. Jim was filled with joy.
“Poetry might not be any darn good, but hunting Jackrabbits IS darn good!”
And so Jack put on his hunting jacket, a bright orange cap, hoisted a rifle over his should and slipped a little grey pen into his breast pocket in case there was anything out there that might be worth mentioning to somebody someday.
He was so happy that he was even whistling as he closed the door to his stone cabin, but–
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