This poem has recently resurfaced. Enjoy!
He comes to the test site, brown bag in his fist,
He isn't a handler, just a name on a list.
He sits on a bucket from dawn until dark,
Hearing few human voices, an occasional bark.
He is standing in water, in waders that leak,
His only companions are dead ducks that reek!
The mosquitoes are biting, the humidity is high,
His body is sweating, but his throat is bone dry.
"Here comes one!" he hollers for the two-hundredth time,
As he gropes for the poppers he dropped in the slime.
"Throw it higher!" the judge yells, "And more to the right!"
As two of the handlers are spoiling for a fight.
"The falls aren't consistent", the handlers whine,
Is this the best thrower your club could find?"
"We can't hear his duck call, he's waiting too long
Gosh darn it, that guy's doing everything wrong!"
The next series is starting, this time on land,
He runs to his station, sandwich in hand.
He sits in the bushes, swatting at flies,
Hearing the handlers tell each other lies.
"My dog really nailed it." "He stepped on that bird."
"She lined it, no whistles", are stories he heard.
But he knows the truth, for he sees every blind,
And always keeps silent for by nature he's kind.
He won't tell how the dogs came and peed on his shoe,
While ignoring every whistle that his handler blew.
And he'll never complain, a fuss never make,
When every dog comes next to him just to shake.
He's wet and he's tired, his feet really hurt,
He wouldn't mind laying down right in the dirt.
But when they give out the ribbons, he claps, gives a yell,
For he is honestly happy for the dogs that did well.
This is the Bird Boy -- the man with no name,
We need him, for without him, there would be no game.
So next time say Thank You and give him a cheer,
Award him a ribbon, and buy him a beer.
