As the glorious twelfth approaches and the moors are filled with toffs
They're letting off to see who's the best shot
Little birds hiding the best they can, awake to the clamour
Dogs, beaters and shouts to scare
Little knowing of the guns waiting there
Gentlemen aim for the sky with their hearts a flutter
With the occasional miss "blast " is what they utter.
The moors at this time is barred to common folk
Except as bearers of shotguns which are all bespoke
As they loosen their breaches and continue to stuff
They'll decide of which bag to be displayed
Lifelike..perpetually stuffed.
brian roy skyers
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-glorious-twelfth/
