They’re way up high, they’re way down low

They seem to be everywhere, except where I go

I hear them calling far and near

I think it’s time to get a beer

Oh crap, the dog is on point

I hope he does not disappoint

I rush up hill running out of breath

The birds erupt, like they are on meth

I put the gun to shoulder and carefully take aim

When it doesn’t go off, I have no one to blame

For in the rush of the morning fun

I failed to load my Winchester shotgun

Mother Chukar!

My feet are sore – blistered and raw

Legs are tired as I head down the draw

We got a few on this cold fall day

And there is not much more to say

For I hope to be back again to make another run

At the Chukars calling in the setting sun

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