Red Deer

Sent from my iPad

Poem by my husband:

Glorious Twelfth

Glory, Glory, twelfth of August,
Shout Hosannas if you must,
Or grouse about the weather
Or the beaters
Or the heather,
While around you other grouses beat the dust,
And hares, and pheasants, and rabbits and almost
everything that moves.

Glory, Glory, twelfth of August,
What a day of celebration,
For the owners of the moors and the gillies
And the boors
Whose sport is causing death and mutilation
To the grouse, and hares and pheasant and rabbits
and almost everything that moves.

Gory, Gory, twelfth of August,
What a bloody way to die,
Shot by our leaders and our betters
And our nouveau riche
Trend-setters
Who decry man's inhumanities, and wonder why.
Why not ask the grouse, or hares, or pheasants or
rabbits or anything left that moves?