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This cramped city life is not right for a man,
We're born to live free and to kill what we can;
So it's off to the country where the air's fresh and clear,
With a carton of cigarettes and twelve dozen beers.
So blow the horn loudly and rev up the truck,
We're off to the country to murder the duck.
We climb in the truck about six forty-five,
And proceed to get tanked for the long weary drive;
When we get to the cabin we're all brightly lit,
Can't remember who drove and can't tell what we hit.
It's up with the dawn though coffee's no good,
And down to the lake through the dew-spangled wood;
When we get to the blind we're as happy as boys,
Till we find out that Buddy forgot the decoys.
So blow the horn loudly and rev up the truck,
We're off to the country to murder the duck.
We crouch without standing from nine until three,
Except every few minutes we stand up and pee;
At last! There's a duck and we fill it with lead,
Can't figure who shot it but the sucker's sure dead.
Then it's back to the cabin for whiskey and steak,
Where we talk about women till nearly daybreak;
No one believes what the other guys say,
But we have to talk dirty to prove we're not gay.
So blow the horn loudly and rev up the truck,
We're off to the country to murder the duck.
The next day the ducks are gone elsewhere in flocks,
So we have to shoot beer cans and tree stumps and rocks;
Dick lost his gun when he fell in the lake,
And Tom shot a full can of beer by mistake.
Then it's back to the city refreshed by our sport,
Drinkin' gas by the gallon and beer by the quart;
We have to draw straws to see who has the luck,
To pick two pounds of lead out of three pounds of duck.
So blow the horn loudly and rev up the truck,
We're off to the country to murder the duck.
