Fudd's Gun

When Elmer Fudd got splashed with mud
at Warner’s county fair,
he dropped his hat and noticed that
the driver was a hare.

So Fudd, though mad, knew that he had
promised his wife, Lenore,
he’d always shun his hunting gun,
and fire it no more.

Yet as he stood on chips of wood
with mud in shoe and sock,
upon John Deere, Elmer could hear
a hare say, “What’s up doc?”

Fudd looked to see how openly
his foe remained in view.
He saw the hare as debonair,
and carrot-toting, too.

So by his mien it could be seen
that sorry had no room.
And when he saw that rabbit haw,
Elmer began to fume.

Thus on that day, past mounds of hay,
Fudd found his flatbed Ford.
Despite the muck he was not stuck,
and Elmer thanked the Lord.

His old twelve gauge was center stage;
below the seat it lay.
He had no doubt and pulled it out;
to him it was okay.

Fudd knew his wife would ache with strife
if he did shoot again.
To limit fault, his shells were salt;
yet rock salt shells serve pain.

Fudd formed a grin and then it thinned;
real ammo was just fine.
So sure and proud, he said out loud,
“Now wabbit, you are mine!”

Fudd thought it grand with gun in hand--
he raised it and took aim.
The shot rang free, and suddenly
old Bugs was not the same.


40 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
11-21-17