After the hounds

The crimson jacketed prince of rogues
With their whips and caps and fancy brogues
Expletives here expletives there
When the sabs are near it’s everywhere
Exhibitionists that’s their plea
Its all about balance
And how to be
The equilibrium of it all
Is based on the hunters clarion call

If you happen to be living where they hunt
If you have a sweet cat or any such runt
The hounds will get them when chasing, they
Will pick them off in their dogged way
Disembowel them at a stroke
The ruthless grim faced hounds that choke
On the blood and fur of the vixen who
Dies a death both vile and true

Their horses leap over stile and fence
Honestly it makes no sense
Their Clatter of hooves down the gravely lane
With the yelping hounds and their dire refrain

Some of the upper crust gentry who
Might be the magistrate a squire or two
The ploughman and the low born class
Who wouldn’t be out there on the grass
Whittling sticks and polishing brass

If you say anything hubristic retorts
And they don’t only hunt in the worst of resorts
No fox gets lucky when they are on the prowl
They had best just turn turtle and talk to my owl

Blood on their fingers
Blood on their hands
Its just a wonder
There are no demands
For crimson coated infidels
Who strike us dead
After the hounds
It has to be said