The huntsman's revenge (Free verse) by Stephen Robins
Drowning in another quart,
Of that beastily tawny port,
And other drinks of that sort,
I still heard the Master's snort.
You may recall how he did bray,
After my crass, wanton display,
Which left my crotch in disarray,
Made, as it was, of papier mache.
I tracked the Master to the Meet,
Though my crotch is imcomplete,
And his appeared to be replete,
I would not yet concede defeat.
I'm a huntsman strong and stout,
'Though troubled by God's gift of gout,
I gave the Master a mighty clout,
His jodphurs split, and what popped out?
No more than a clay boy scout!
What's that doing in your breeches?
I cried over the Master's screeches,
The shire now knows to the furthest reaches,
He practices not what he preaches.
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