"Ode to a Dove"

For your 30 generations
The Mitten has been safe;
Since time long forgotten
You've always graced our place.

Your soft gentle coo's been
Our morning's soothing sound;
Now-with a shotgun's blast
It may soon be ever drowned.

For Tabor has a saver,
Her fork and her knife;
An' to please her palate,
Your must give your life.

You mate an' nest an'
Raise your brood;
An' sing your song
What e're your mood.

Our Mitten's safe you've
Always known;
A haven north-your
Summer home.

But Tabor has a saber,
Her fork and her knife;
An' to please her palate,
Your mist give your life.

Caesar fed on humming birds,
An' Robins taste good, too;
Who needs your mourning song?
Who needs your gentle coo?

Just a rich mans fob-
You're shish kabob!

An' Tabor has her saber...

© 2003 Wiley E. B.

My family for generations has hunted. The thought of killing mourning doves for the tiny morsel of meat is abhorrent to my father and grandfather's past.

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