Hunters on horse back

Throwbacks from a former age
With a loathing of the now
Most hold ancient grudges
The loathsomeness of how
Odious and obnoxious
They snap they snarl they growl
We are the lower orders
The dregs seen as most foul
When they wear their hunting clothes
And ride their horse to hunt
The battle cry is evident
Their guards are back and front
The enemy is the wild one
The varlet rascal who
Runs rings around the gentry
The stinking rat faced true

Under a medieval spell
A crone of long before
Took a red haired princess
A wicked deed of war
Convicted but had got away
And found a country earth
Atoning for his crimes tis said
Wherein he found great worth
In able to shape shift tis said
And on the famous hunts
Would startle horse and rider
And rather guilty stunts

The nobility had everything
And often to excess
The wild folk of the forest glades
Thus gained their success
They were of godly standing
Anubis knew them well
A kind of hero character
Received by most as swell
Protected by the farm hands
And by cottagers who grew
Their own fruit in the orchards
And also their home brew

Too many well to do folks
These days seemingly
Have listened too much to the
Old books and the hostelry
The game keepers
The farmers
Those with chicken coops
And many chase the crimson brush
With all their brainwashed troops

The councillors the magistrates
The land owners those who
Like to wear their hunting gear
And look down on folk
They do
seen as lowly ruffians
The riff raff which is true
To this day many a copper
Or some frightfully pompous sod
Will ride up front and command respect
A typical well heeled knob

Whips his horse and will kick a hound
Shouts expletive at the sabs
Rides his horse into them
Their camera’s yea he grabs
Trail hunting the great big joke
A cloth soaked in fox pee
Dragged behind one of the mares
Really just to see

If they scare a wild boy
Out of his earth and run
It’ll then be an accident
When the day is done
A red soul chewed up by twenty hounds
Its guts all ore the ground
The stench of vixen torn to bits
In what is that delightful sound

It plays havoc with Reynard
Knowing his gal is gone
He recounts the spell she was under
A factor now upon
Each dog who feels vibrations
The forest wailing cries
Which strengthens all new families
Which the huntsman realise

The sabs are the new angels
Who know the loophole crowd
Who police the violent hunters
Their improbity is loud
Often missed by people
But not the sabs for they
Take on the role of security
For the foxes of the day