Snake

It was Saturday morning,
The sun ready to rise,
Dad and I were hunting,
Scanning the trees with our eyes.

The Squirrels were all jumping,
To get their morning meal,
And the light was just perfect,
Dad had spied one to kill.

Well I tried to sit quietly,
Then I looked at my boots,
There I saw a small quiver,
I saw it in the roots.

A small brown snake,
Laying pretty as can be,
His head was striking,
His tongue stuck out at me.

I said "Dad, a snake!
Please chase it away,"
Dad said "Hush son,"
I see a squirrel in the light of the day.

I yelled "Dad a rattle snake,"
Is biting at me,"
"Son, I have told you,
It's a squirrel that I see."

Finally tired of my crying,
Dad looked at my shoe,
He pulled me back and yelled,
"That thing's striking at you."

"It's no rattle snake,"
Dad said, "But you're right,
It's a baby copperhead,
And that thing does bite."

Dad reach for a stick,
And struck the snake's head,
Then we lifted the snake,
Sure 'nough, it was dead.

Well from then on hunting,
Dad told me what he'd do,
"If you see something wrong,
Tell me and I'll listen to you."