My friend the wild one

Follow the dew trail under the sun
After a blue sky where foxy begun
His trek over yonder
Away from those hounds
Away from those horses
Away out of bounds

Those hunters their sense of smell
Poor very poor
Those odours of fox they can never be sure
The fox on the other hand he can smell man
The hunter the murdering arse whose no fan

It’s May and the cubs will be going to play
They bark it’s a mark in the sand so to say
They will run like the clappers until judgement day
Ahead of the pack the shrill starkest cries
If one of their own is caught and he dies

It’s a very grim prospect caught by the boys
Who rip you apart with just so much noise
Blood sports are evil tradition says so
The crimson clad lay a bouts don’t need to know
They mount their thoro breeds and with such wrath
They chase the SAb vehicles right up the path

The valour apparent the vixen doth show
They suffer those ugly cries tragically grow
The hunters refrain is the bugle or horn
A flash of the steel as they cut
Through the corn

He is off like a shot weaving about
Coming back on himself not in any doubt
They say he is wily and he knows where to run
And he also knows when his day is done

The clatter of horses and breathing we hear
Clouds of white smoke puffed skywards my dear
Through the trees and the bushes we bend and decide
Where it is the owls hoot where it is we must ride

Chatter and scatter the patter of hearts
The eyes looking all ways
For everywhere starts
And ends with the hunt
On the back of one who
Runs like the wind as all victims do

Those with the hunt with range rovers, they
Drive around witH them most of the day
They are their warriors
Clapping their trap
Everywhere they go
Through every flap

The gorse is resplendent
It’s gold pictures fly
The hazel is bursting with blossom
And why
The fragrance apparent
We know it is May
For they
want our head on a platter today

Cameron promises the big repeal
Whatever labour undertook they now feel
The need to go after us chase us until
We drop in the bush and our rich blood we spill
Till we’re torn into shreds and we bloody well die
That thought to be pleasurable yea which is why
With an eye on our brush and our eye on your eye
We run like the falcon all seeing on high
Like a honed scimitar a suggestion of grace
The wind in our ears and fear on our face
Trying to get back to home and our soul
Hopeful the sabs can take on the role
Of saviour of friend of everything for they
Mean everything to us every day