We all know who’s the ones
who invented guns
for their names appear in the book.
What I wanna know,
is who invented the bow?
He’s nowhere that I look.
I can see the attraction
to the lever-action,
I’d be a fool if I tried to deny it.
There’s nothing sweeter
than the sound of a repeater,
but I’m personally fonder of quiet.
More than the pop of a pistol
I crave the soft whistle
of my arrow taking it’s flight,
the bullet can’t be seen
so that’s what I mean
why miss out on this mystical sight?
When I hear a blast bellow,
I’m the kind of fellow
who feels fear spread everywhere.
All I want to hear
is the thump on a deer,
after my blades slice through the air.
As they spiral and glide
and arch towards his hide,
ensued by the imposing thud,
then that glistening shine
like a rich red wine,
of my arrow painted with blood.
When I peak through my peep
at the food I will reap,
it straightens the hair on my back,
when that moment’s unfolding
and I’m soon enough holding
that beautiful chocolate rack.
As I proudly stare,
I’m gratefully aware,
so I give grace for taking his life,
Right down to his marrow
It was my bow and arrow,
that created the need for my knife
When my release feels right
and my stick takes flight
my heart just pumps with glee.
That thrust of the string
is a soulful thing
that brings out the best of me.
Stumbling tracks in the mud
so hued with blood
that steers me towards to my kill,
As I approach my deer
it’s perfectly clear
that this is the ultimate thrill.
When I trek God’s land
with a bow in my hand,
and my passion is running so fierce,
may I get the chance
to draw back and lance
and coach my shaft to it’s pierce.
The Ottoman Empire
doesn’t light my fire
the place that gave birth to the gun,
yes both tools do the same
when hunting our game,
but my bow is favorably fun.
Once again I’d be a fool
to say guns ain’t cool
but that’s not what I’m all about.
By now you must know
that it is my bow
that makes me twist and shout.
This is why I yearn
to finally learn,
where he couldn’t take the spear anymore.
Was he hunched by a fire
with the desperate desire,
to hunt without getting so sore?
To carve sticks, make a string,
was a miraculous thing,
for this hunter to eventually build.
How could you describe
what it meant to the tribe
when his dream had been fulfilled?
So once again
I ask you my friend,
for all the glory it’s worth,
what is the name
of the man with no fame,
who gave the blessed bow it’s birth?
For more please go to: Johnny Costello
