“A-hunting we will go, a-hunting we will go, hi-ho the diawio, a-hunting we will go.” This is Elmer out here hunting in the wild woods, and if you wecken I’m hunting wabbits you’re wong. I’m after those wascal deer today. They weally wub me wong.
These swippewy wittle wascals have weally been wecking my wandscaping. They’ve been having wunch on my daywiwies and twees, and that weawy gets my dander wup. They think they’re so intewigent, but I’m gona swip wight up on those wascals and bust ‘em. I’ll show ‘em a thing or thwee. I’ve got my ol’ twusty muzzle woader and wed pwaid hunting jacket, and that means they’re weally in big twouble. Wook out Banbi, cause here I come, and you’re weally gonna find this wegwettable. The next widdle sharp hoof that sets foot in my garden gets it wight in the ol’ bweadbasket.
I’m not gonna fool awound wif these guys wike I did wif Daffy and Bugs. This is sewious business, and when I’m in the widdle wed twuck, it’s a business twip, huh-huh-huh-huh.
Mr. Game Warden won’t be able to save ‘em when I get on their twail, cause I’m gonna wack ‘em, wight between the eyes. They say there’s a pwace for all of God’s cweatures. It’s not in my garden; it’s wight between the gween beans and the mashed taters and gwavy, huh-huh-huh-huh.
I’m so iwitated I’m seeing wed, and I don’t mean the wed oak, or the wedbud, or camofwage and bows and awows. I mean wed pwaid jacket and muzzle woader. I’m usualwy a weal nice guy, but when you mess with my shrubbewy, it’s no more Mr. Nice Guy – it’s “Elmer Wambo,” A.K.A. – “Wocky,” and the gwoves are off. In the big ballgame of wife, there has to be a winner, and a woser. Being the nice guy that I am, I’m always willing to wet the other guy wose. This hunting game is a waff a minute, and I’m gonna waff all the way to the meat market.
I’ve twied Ivowy soap, Wascal-B-Gone, scarecwows, and pie pans. Now it’s time to get down to bwass tacks. Now it’s time to bust a twuckwoad of ‘em, and save my wandscawaping. Just wemember this – if the wead ain’t flyin’ the deer ain’t dying. A-hunting we will go, a-hunting we will go. That’s all folks. E. Fudd