I ounce heard a poam called the creekcrawlers,?

Question

the poam was about wildfowling can anyone help me, would love to read it again.

Answer 1

THE CREEKCRAWLERS, found in Modern wildfowling by Eric Begbie

When the storm winds blow high and dawning is nigh
And most sane folk are still fast asleep,
With a dog and a gun the marsh they will run,
A harvest of wildfowl to reap.

This strangely clad crew try to stay out of view
While they creep to the edge of the tide.
Shod in waders and wellies they crawl on there bellies,
To reach bank gutter or hide

Then when hidden from sight they will snuggle down tight
Out of breath and despattered with mud
To wait for the flight which will start at first light
With ducks heading back to the flood.

It’s a queer kind of sport you may hear some restort
To sit frozen and wet in the rain
Moasochistic’s the word for its plainly absurd
To get pleasure from suffering in pain

But the fowler is tough and he’s certain enough
That it’s worth waiting out on the shore
When its hailing or snowing and the gales are a blowing
And the waves pound the land with a roar

On a morning like this it really a bliss
To hear geese calling loud as they fly
But if the not wide by a mile from his hide
They’ll be ninety yard high in the sky

Even mallard may not give much chance of a shot
As over the fowler they streak
By the time he has thrown gun to his shoulder they’re gone
Just to land in the very next creek

Though his bag may be empty, he’s had chance a-plenty
His sport always gives him a thrill
There is always much more than is shown by the score
WILDFOWL TEN POINTS—WILDFOWLER NIll

Its such a great poam, loved it as a kid, infact had it memorised,
its nice to hear some pashion amungst the shooting community

Answer 2

I think this is the one you're referring to? It's by Eric Begbie who also wrote Spinning a Line and The Claybusters.

The Creekcrawlers
An ode to the eternal optimism of the wildfowler

When storm winds blow high and dawning is nigh
And most sane folk are still fast asleep,
With a dog and a gun to the marsh they will run,
A harvest of wildfowl to reap.

This strangely-clad crew try to stay out of view
While they creep to the edge of the tide.
Shod in waders and wellies, they crawl on their bellies
To reach bank or gutter or hide.

Then when hidden from sight, they coorie down tight
Out of breath and bespattered with mud,
To wait for the flight that will start at first light
With the ducks heading back to the flood.

It's a queer kind of sport, you may hear some retort,
To sit frozen and wet in the rain.
Masochistic's the word, for it's plainly absurd
To get pleasure from suffering and pain.

But the fowler is tough and he's certain enough
That it's worth waiting out on the shore,
When it's hailing or snowing and gales are a-blowing
And the waves pound the land with a roar.

On a morning like this, it really is bliss
To hear geese honking loud as they fly
But id they're not wide, by a mile from his hide,
They'll be ninety yards high in the sky.

Even mallard may not give much chance of a shot
As over the fowler they streak.
By the time he has thrown gun to shoulder, they're gone
Just to land in the very next creek.

Though his bag may be empty, he's had chances a-plenty.
His sport always gives him a thrill.
There is always much more than is shown by the score:
Wildfowl ten points; wildfowlers nil.

It's from
http://www.poetscorner.org.uk/creek.htm

Where I live you can't actually shoot outside like that, I do air rifle as a competitive sport in an indoor range. So though I don't really sort of connect with this poem as much, it is still well-written and interesting. Nice to read, for some reason I can't stand poems which don't have some rhyming scheme.