Cheek frozen to the stock,
Fingers numbing to their cores.
The icy wind gives quite a shock
When lying prone on the floor.

Your straining eyes freeze shut
As you squint at the sights;
You try not to move, but
The winter hounds still bite.

The gun is rough, and humbled
When you try to get a grip,
You can't help but fumble
When useless fingers start to slip.

The trigger pulls, and you hiss
At the error of your shot–
Blame the cold for your miss,
But you deserve what you got.