Connor Olejnik
My arrow shoots straight.
A target is never missed.
How do I begin explaining,
The game I cannot resist?
It is not of my nature,
Nor is it ever in season.
Because we must not hunt Man,
Without right rhyme or reason.
My arrow shoots straight,
But from a bow that is curved.
For without that hardwood arc,
Sweet satisfaction is unnerved.
You should not judge my taste,
Until it has touched your lips.
It will sit right in your stomach,
and make you stir your hips.
I twist, turn, and bend my arrow,
Your first taste of Man’s blithe bone marrow.