Class action

The balaclava warriors
The angels of the field
They really take a lot of stick
From the hunters who do build
All sorts of class structure
The plum in mouth brigade
Who love to kill The feral souls
And join their true parade

They talk up the pest control
Aspect of the chase
Clad in their coats and breeches
With denial on their face
The collective yelp of hungry hounds
Hark the famous horn
They all love to break the law
And watch a wild fox torn

To pieces by the rabid dogs
And all outside the law
The saboteurs risk life and limb
To stop the hunts for sure
What they do is illegal
It lacks substance for a start
A superficiality
By those without a heart

Behold the balaclava folk
Intimately on fire
They know the correlation
And really just how dire
The fox feels chased to kingdom come
And back to meet its death
Choking like a demon whose
Been relieved of breath

Dont talk to me of culture
As you tear across a wall
Rip up peoples cloches
Like a banshee in a squall
And there is no compensation
For the satiable desire
Of slaughtering a feral fox
And calling us a liar

The hunters talk up class as if
We care where they were born
Most are bloody tossers
On that fact it does dawn
To many what they are really like
Insufferable freaks
The fino in the schooner
And the foie gras on their cheeks

The cruelty is everywhere
The hounds are often hung
Are put out of their misery
Before their bell was rung
The Hunting act was put in place
But never did a thing
The gentry know they are above the law
A fact they often sing

All sorts climb upon their horse
Imagining that they
Are somehow high and mighty
And the fox is made to pay
The police come if they have to
But can turn a blind eye
Blair understood the countryside
We all know thats a lie

Many hate the murdering
The chase and the pursuit
They dont want all this blood and guts
Using any route
Near their precious premises
And argue the toss like mad
But all they get is aggro
Which honestly is sad

The arrogance of the gangsters
Who really do not care
Incursions through your gardens
Are anything but rare
When they ride their chosen steeds
You all get out the way
For they are the lords and masters
On any given day

Their possession of lateral thinking
Is sadly lost and gone
Reasonableness and discussion
Is not entered upon
Its all based on sophistry
The claptrap of the rich
Its incongruous and unfounded
They have no course to pitch

They are apparently unwilling
To confirm their sadistic stance
Obstinate perversity
Nothings done by chance
Its basically an evil
A streak of gash and gore
Insidious and injurious
To the ferals on the floor

Hunting causing abject fear
And believing it to be
Exciting in the scheme of things
And hounds hung on a tree
Too weak to run the hunt it seems
Abused by sinful creeps
Dressed in their hunting clobber
Who look down on us peeps

The fox is pure perfection
A wild soul thick haired tail
Heading up a family
Out on the light trail
Hapless in the face of danger
Wretched watch them go
Often up against it
Though clearly in the know

The authorities seem powerless
It suits them maybe so
To watch the landed gentry
Legislatively blow
The rule of law to smithereens
Hold down the working class
Kind of look the other way
And let the huntsman pass