Thank you Mr. Herbert (boom, boom)
When I was a cub
and I hid in the scrub
from the slavering mouths of the curs,
I choked on my grub
when I heard of a club
consisting of Hunt saboteurs.
It gave me the hump
and a pain in the rump
that aspersions were cast on my speed,
for there in a clump
I was safe from a chump
jumping hedges to harry my breed.
What right have these gits
in their mufflers and mitts
to deprive me the thrill of the chase?
I live on my wits
while a westerly spits
in each whiskery, rubicund face.
On the moors there's a hush
as I waggle my brush
and put paid to the hunt with my paws,
so I hope they will blush
at their sentiment (mush!)
and accept that they're awful old bores.
What their protest destroys
is the pleasure of ploys
like exuding a false line of scent,
but the ultimate joy's
more than animal poise
and outwitting each idiot gent.
No, what Herbert wants done
is to rescue the fun
that the countryside's long guaranteed –
at the end of a run,
at the end of a gun,
to lie down for a jolly good bleed.
These sabs for a start
cannot fathom the art
or the passion of being pursued,
nor the thrill of one's heart
torn completely apart
and allowing one's guts to be chewed.
Read the Guardian story about hunting and the Tory Herbert here