Getting a round in

I bagged myself a brace of pheasants

While striding up on the moor

And, while I’d my rifle with me,

I bagged a handful more.

Then I hiked across the heathered glen

‘Til our village inn came near.

It’s thirsty work is shooting

And I needed to sup me a beer.

There was a bike outside - a big black beast

With shiny chrome and leather

And on the front, by the number-plate,

A sprig of “lucky heather”.

As I entered the warmth of my local

The rider was propped by the bar.

“Yo, Grandad!” he cried, “I see yer bin shootin’ -

“You a bit of a shootin’ star?”

I’m a tolerant man by all accounts -

The patience of a saint I’ve got -

But the granddad of a greasy-haired yobbo

Is one thing I’m definitely not.

We’ve not got a jukebox or bandit machines,

That kind of thing makes me irate,

Just a well-worn welcome awaiting each one -

Fresh logs on the fire in the grate.

I come here for peace and for quiet,

I’ve no time for him with the mouth,

And what makes it doubly annoying

Is the fact that he comes from the South.

I gave our Beryl a pheasant. She smiled.

I nodded at our Jack.

“What ho, old un!” Yobbo jeered again.

I did not answer back.

“Well ain’t yer gonna say nuffin’?

“At least yer could be pleasant!

“Yer might be a tight-arsed Scotsman

“But it wouldn’t hurt to give me a pheasant.”

He swaggered across to where I stood,

Thrust out his crusty jaw.

He seemed to be spoiling for a fight

But I don’t do that no more.

I just raised my trusty shotgun,

Put the barrel to his head,

Squeezed the trigger gently

And shot the bastard dead.

He was just another of those social diseases

That no-one can love but their mothers.

“Oh Bugger!” said Jack,

“Let’s get him out back

“And put him on stack

“With the others.”

Now I know that I’m not the most generous of fellows

So you may find this astounding:

I’ve an uncanny knack

(You just ask Jack)

I know when to get a round in.

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