Flea in their ear

A cold Autumn morning
The Hunters on cue
The Sabs with their skeleton masks
just a few
Talked to the Hunters
asking them why?
The Sabs seen as wasters
The fox has to die

Why such a question
Leave the poor soul
To rest in his earth
For that is his role
But both camps believe
They are clearly right
It can’t be
Not when a wild soul
feels just like me
Being chased across countrysides
by horses and hounds
And if caught, torn to bits
Just like doing the rounds
The police have arrived
The Sabs make a row
To frighten the fox
I just don’t know how
Some people tick
Wanting wild creatures dead
And chasing them
They must be out of their head

A fox doesn’t hurt them
Horses and Sherry
Tally Ho
Mr Crow
You appear merry
All I can hope for
Is the fox gets away
And you fall off your horse
And are made to pay
laying in the mud
Hoping some one
Will come to your aid
With a nice tot of rum

If you do then recount
How the poor fox must feel
Chased by your hounds
All those sounds, are for real
Torn limb from limb
Disembowelled in great pain
And how much better it feels
That its started to rain