This Christmas poem is just for you sportsmen

Inspired by the great Christmas poem by Clement Clarke Moore, I just had to write this sportsmen’s version of “Twas the Night Before Christmas.” I hope you enjoy it!

Twas the Saturday Before Christmas

Twas the Saturday before Christmas, and the sportsmen were stoked,

The panfish were biting and there were coyotes to be smoked.

Wool stockings were hung so the dryer wouldn’t shrink,

And the rubber boots were out to keep toes out of the drink.

The children were out of their classes and meds,

While visions of iPhones danced in their heads.

And Mama in her baby doll and I in my Hanes

Had just nodded off in a pre-Christmas trance.

When on the flatscreen there arose such a popping,

Some tall bearded guys, the mallards were dropping.

I grabbed the remote, I clicked like a flash,

Just in time to see Jim Shockey do the Caribou Smash.

The moon glinted down on the snow in the back,

Where eight whitetail deer were leaving their tracks.

When what to my vodka-glazed eyes should appear,

But a pack of wolves, two pumas and a bear.

And running behind, his clipboard in hand

Was a DNR biologist, running ‘cross my land.

“You guys can’t be here, you just don’t exist,”

He yelled at the critters, then gone in the mist.

I grabbed the bolt-action in 30-06

Just hoping to drop something, lickety-split.

The shots I did fire, with a pop-pop-pop,

But just like deer season, not a creature did drop.

Next morning came early, my daughter was bored

Her cell phone was drained and her laptop ignored.

“Let’s go for a ‘yote hunt,” I suggested her way.

“But Dad, it’s too early—I can’t stay awake.”

I found the snow camos, the rifle and caller.

“I’ll be home with a coyote,” I gave with a holler.

The snow in the driveway was a sparkling white powder,

The plowing could wait—the call to hunt was much louder.

I crawled in the deer blind and clicked on the heater,

Then turned on the Fox Pro cottontail screamer.

When much to my wandering eyes should appear

But a very large tomcat, a chunk gone from one ear.

The target was tempting, the crosshairs were steady,

But thoughts of my daughter dropped the barrel from ready.

The stray cat moved off, though he was up to no good,

Searching for a meal, eyeing songbirds for food.

I moved through the woods with the grace of a Yeti

The tree limbs were snapping, the snow flying like confetti.

I called from a ridgetop, a fenceline and a valley,

But the only things I saw were two squirrels and a blue jay.

The hunting was poor, although I felt much richer.

I’d left home the daughter and also the wife.

Chilled to the bone but relaxed and revived,

The woods had done wonders to ease my overstressed life.

Now home once again to think on the year,

The quarry had won—not a coyote nor deer.

But I realized at last, a clear vision I’d seen

That the best part of getting skunked is there’s nothing to clean!

Have a wonderful Christmas and may all your outdoors adventures bring you great joy!

Ross Bielema is a freelance writer from New London and owner of Wolf River Concealed Carry LLC. Contact him at