Tuesday May 23, 2006

Every year, prior to the start of the NY season, I get a little serious case of cabin fever. Once the songbirds start returning, and I hear their mating calls it's hard to think of anything besides turkey hunting. I also like to sing along with country music when I am driving and especially when I am making the 6-7hr commute to NY for hunting. While sitting in Northern VA during the last week of April, I was singing a Johnny Cash song and started to improvise my own lyrics. This turned into a song writing "stint". Below are a few of the songs that I wrote, as well as some that Bill Lang wrote.

Eastern Birds: By: Brian Gottfried. In the tune of Hank Williams Jr, Texas Women

I've got some fond memories of Ontario/ and I've seen some long beards in South Monroe/ but the best lookin' gobblers that I've ever seen, have all been in Schoharie and all finely preened.

Chorus:
I'm a country hill boy/ not a city pill boy/ and I don't eat sushi, but I have killed some fish/ drive a pickup truck/ trust in morning luck/ and I live to hunt Eastern turkeys.

I thought I'd seen beauty in faraway places/ 'til I looked upon those blue and red faces/ spent plenty of nights in those Adirondack Hills, but they weren’t nothin’ like one night down in Cobleskill.

Repeat Chorus

I'm a pretty fair judge of the subspecies silvestris/ and I ain’t seen nothin’ that will touch em' yet/ they may be from Summit or out in Arkport/ but one thing about it they all come from New York

Repeat Chorus

I'm a gobbler fan not a soccer man/ and their heads are red and so is my blood/ and they make it boil with that loud morning bawl and I love em’ all, Eastern turkeys.


Schoharie County Blues: In the tune of Johnny Cash, Folsom Prison Blues

I hear the bird a gobblin’, it's stuttin on a limb/ And I ain't heard that sweet song since I don't know when/ I'm stuck in Northern V-A and time keeps draggin' on/ But that rooster keeps a crowin', I know it won’t be long

When I was just a youngin’, my mentor told me/ "Son,Always be a good boy; don’t forget ta’ clean your guns"/ But I shot a lot of fowl/ just to bake and fry/ When I hear that silent misfire, I hang my head and cry

I bet there's birds a gobblin' on that hill way out far/ They're probably hangin' posters and smokin' big cigars/ But they know they have it comin', they know they can't beat me/ Cuz' I will keep on askin/ and I will find that tree.

Well, if they gave me some permission/ if that hill terrain was mine/ I bet I'd sneak closer, a little farther down the line/ Closer to that big Oak/ that's where I want to stay/ And I'd let that lonely gobbler/ give his tree away