WHATEVER YOU DO IS WRONG

When you sit in the blind awaiting the flight

Of the white-breasted northern sprig,

While they circle high and think to light,

And they look so close and big,

You whisper your pard, as you both crouch low,

“Now! – Don’t wait too long!”

You shoot – too far – and off they go;

Whatever you do is wrong!

 

Then you curse yourself for a fool greenhorn,

Your pride has had a blow;

Sullen you sit and smoke and mourn,

When – in comes a bunch, fair low!

You watch them circle ‘round and ‘round,

“Just let them work along!”

When – off they swing, southward bound;

Whatever you do is wrong!

 

And so, through life, a poor wretch tries

To do what he thinks is right,

To place his funds so that when he dies

His family’ll be sitting tight;

To raise the young with the best in mind,

And sometimes it works like a song,

But often he finds like the man in the blind,

Whatever you do is wrong!

 

Still, I think that the God who sits in His sky,

And watches each man in his blind,

When it comes time for the hunter to die,

Surely, He’ll keep in mind

That each tried to do what it seemed he ought,

And He’ll put us where we belong;

For He’ll understand the fellow that thought

Whatever he did was wrong!