The cold metal on the frosty woolen glove, The feel any man would love, For he is holding a gun, And, this is the one. The wood grips soft on the skin, With careful aim, the bullet will win, Concentration is all it takes, For a sound so loud, all the Earth shakes. Relax, breathe, and dont anticipate, For you, too, will soon participate, In the sport we hold so dear, To deliver us from fear. Gently squeeze now, but do not jerk, And now, the target shall not lurk, For the slug had met its enemy, And the shot rang out so heavenly. The slide locks back, and the magazine drops, And your buddy next to you gives you props, As you smile, you load the lead, And from the magazine, the rounds are fed. Shots ring out for hours more, So much you forget what youre shooting for, Then you recall the happiness inside, As you load the magazine and rack the slide. Oh, no! Just eight rounds left, And youre arms ache from the pistols heft, Yet you line the sights and continue to squeeze, And shoot the targets that you please. Youre out of ammo now, And you wonder just how, This can be so much fun, But now its time to run. To go home and eat and sleep, But since you are out of ammo, you must also weep.