Snuffed out thats us

Snuffed out with a single shot
Not consigned to any plot
Of rest not us, we are worthless too
The hunter man or someone like you

As families we do enjoy life
We suffer pain and lots of strife
Nocturnal thats our means to be
Alive and kicking naturally

But true blue toffs have their belief
They label us pests and give us grief
They kill and maim our children too
That is what all hunters do

They dress up in their haughty strip
Blood red coats cling to the hip
Jodhpur trousers again worn tight
Guts and bellies full by right

Full of other animals who
Stretch the stitches as they do
Who are raised to kill and raised to be
Pie materials actually

Traditionalists of hunting class
Looking down on the working class
Who might have a rented house close by
And a pet or two who can also die

judged as workers thats at best
But obviously they too invest
In a family but misjudged by those
Hunter men I do suppose

They have the right to do whatever
Dress and hunt for they are clever
They are Barons they are squires
Magistrates, police chiefs whose fires

Whose stations set
All men of class
No matter how much of a farce
They are the citizens, its their way
And the likes of us we have to pay

A fox is wild 4 legs a tail
With his handsome brush wow he can sail
Across the forest he can run
And like every creature enjoy the sun

But he is a night boy so in tune
With the tawny owl and the lemon moon
His eye sight and his rapid breath
Much more akin to life than death

And he is a wild boy put here for
The hunter and now there are loads more
Operating horse and hound
Tally ho we know the sound

And the government some of them will say
To hunt is a privilege where all must pay
For they are the pipers they are all heart
Tanked up on their schooners from the start

Whips and vengeance in their hand
On their thoroughbreds ride the land
The land we all are supposed to share
But they believe it is theirs, aware

The wind can bite the rain can fall
The sun can burn the moon can cool
We are the worthless tribes en masse
Whilst they are the hunters full of gas

Who wink at their ladies
And whip their mare
Who run us down in the morning air
Put the fright up us
Yes they do
With the clattering hooves
And their hound dogs who

Who must keep up who must know the ropes
All 35 they too have hopes
Of catching us and making sure
For the hunters love the blood and gore

When their ladies are startled
The adrenaline rush
When they see
the glint of our crimson brush

Startled of course but ready to run
Or dug out of the earth and dispatched by a gun
The british people are concrete clad
Who drive tin cars and were clearly had

A long time ago by the ruling class
With their fucking great mansions
And matching arse