How long I hunted to get my prize.
It's a hoofed thing that's rubbed with sage.
Gunningly I'd got the deer in sight;
Blasted away and hit it, a downed ungulate--
Placed it on the grate, flame.
Ooh! Basting in oven, game.
It was tame; I lured it and I should feel shame;
The wire I'd strung had made it lame.

Moo not deer; steers cheer with bovine cries,
But venison the fire fries.
In just under one hour I will dine, dine, dine
With Retsina, infused with pine,
The resiny taste is pleasantly paced.
Ooh! Basting in oven, game.
On the flame it roasts; "It's ready!" I exclaim
I am fired up to toast, "L'chaim," misrhymed.

I roast on the grate what will soon be ate.
But the meat's not done yet; I see eyes
Open and watch pumping thighs.
(Note to self: I'd better check my gun.)
I open the door, watch the beast run;
It don't hesitate and heads for the gate.
&!@#, racing from oven, game, merely maimed--
Trailing from it's tailed anus, flame.
Now my hunter mates will defame,
Oh yeah, my name and start to play the blame game
And cry, "He brings shame to the game game. . . ."