By: Johnny Costello

By: Johnny Costello

     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?

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