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.