A blog by Bob Rich. Squirrel Hunting, Henry Rifles, Reloading, Range Shooting and More!


Thursday, June 9, 2011

A flintlock poem by Scott Allen. Enjoy!

"A Poem from my brother....If any one is planning to get into flintlock rifles, this one is for you. ~Steve Allen" 

Read on my brother and you shall see of the trial of the flintlock and your younger brother me.

The research was solid the idea was sound but the devil was in the detail was what I have found.

With visions of Boone twirling in my head the rifle would get the meat I would get the bread.

The gun was purchased and was all apart, but I would assemble and polish with love in my heart.

With willing hands and good intentions I labored along without bad premonitions.

The day finally came to fire the grand old dame so I headed out the door to predestined flintlock fame.

I opened the lock and brushed with a feather,then I inspected the flint snug in fine leather.

I measured the powder with the skill of a surgeon, then I rammed down the ball without any urging.

Then with the small horn I filled the pan plum,but on passing the flint I split open my thumb.

With my thumb in my mouth the bleeding can't last, but the neighbor sure stared as he slowed when he passed.

When my thumb was all wrapped and the pan with dry prime, I looked at the target and knew it was time.

With eyes all asquinty I steadied my nerve, I looked down my sights with nary reserve.

The trigger was tightened and then fell the cock, white smoke then billowed but just from the lock.

The sinner was lowered to see whats amiss, then looking at the touch hole I heard a slight hiss.

The silence was shattered with a whiz and crack, and the flash from the touch hole turned my eye black.

The ball was unaimed and found a flat rock in its going, and upon its return it found my soft loin.

My eye is healing and will open a little,my pod is still swollen and it hurts when I piddle.

My thumb is draining and red and smells rank, it may just fall off from infection I think.

The rifle is stored my afflictions will pass, and the whole Dixie Gun Works can kiss my modern ass...

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