It is the twelfth in August's month,
glorious be thy God.
From London all the lenders come
to form a firing squad.
These Bankers are on pilgrimage
to settle all accounts.
They climb the Moors to reach the top,
the Vermin on the mount.
They aim at Grouse for thrills,
from walls of peat they shoot,
like Priests within a pulpit,
their doctrine, 'game' pursuit!
Twelve bores sat on their butts,
before beaters do their duty,
then blast away, the feathers fall
the Brokers bag their booty.
Its jinking flight the crimson comb,
the Grouse's cry 'go bak'.
Too late for those that seek escape,
succumb to shotguns flak.
They're dealers in death, these Eton boys,
barrels of fun, have shares in noise.
Replenished stocks of birds to kill,
the keepers work the targets filled.
Il nomine Partridge, eat fillet, swig spirit in Sanctum,
Cook Pheasant and Woodcock,
North from Thames, the South in tweed,
dethrone the 'King of Game', the loader's creed.
Alumni of the trading floor, investors to impress,
lets shoot a brace ...Hell, kill the lot.....
et gloria in excess.
The mathematics of slaughter,
the sum of us employed,
a sacrifice of feathers
our overdraft made void.
Keepers, Beaters, Loaders, Weavers,
Gunsmiths, Painters too,
not forgetting Chefs and Angel,
all must pay for brew.
If some birds need to die
so plutocrats have pleasure
its safe to say....money grows NOT on trees
but in the burnt-out heather.
When those 'Savile Row Slayers' hit the road,
returned to London's scene,
let THEM become the target,
inspect their Bonus Scheme!