The Ghost of Sugarplum Mountain
They say his spirit abides way up there,
on Sugarplum Mountain, so high,
just in seeing him, you've got to climb a lot,
going right on up, into that sky.
That majestic buck, with polished rack,
more than twenty points, they say,
many hunters have sought after him,
but he's lived on again, another day.
The buck on Sugarplum Mountain,
moves like a ghost throughout the night,
he hides by day in the shadows so cool,
then travels by a pale moon's light.
Down from the mountain peaks, he comes,
to roam the broad valleys below,
the only signs left, were his foot prints,
by a creek where yellow leaves blow.
My first rifle, was bought last autumn,
then I swore I'd track that trophy down.
hunting on one late November evening,
my every step made without a sound.
I saw that big deer, as he fed on acorns,
by the big moon rising up over head.
my rifle sights were trained on his shoulder,
then I chose not to shoot, instead.
The Ghost of Sugarplum Mountain,
still roams over the wild country, up there,
he's lived life where his spirits are free,
and with the beauty of nature to share.
As a moon rises high, by late evening's sky,
I strain my eyes, hard, just to see,
just to catch but a glimpse of the trophy,
and where his essence will always be.
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