WITH NO DEATH STICKS IN THE QUIVER, IT'S FAST DOWN THE RIVER

My bow has no quiver with death sticks to deliver,

I stand harmless in the snow with a shake and a shiver,

Along comes a buck with a large rack on his head,

It is all pointy points so, methinks I'll be dead,

The beast stabs at me in my kidney, heart and liver,

I step backwards and fall into the Manistee River,

Fast down the river my limp body works its way,

Until, it rests in a hole beneath wood, stones and clay.