They’re on the prowl and fire at will:

sharp shooting boys with pellet guns;

they’re tall and slim and short on brains.

 

It’s cats and dogs and window panes

that mostly give these punks a thrill:

they’re on the prowl and fire at will.

 

They have no souls; they smash and kill;

at our expense they have their fun --

destroying with their pellet guns.

 

They have no thought for people’s pains:

intent on showing off their skill --

they’re on the prowl and fire at will.

 

The bastards will not stop until

they’re locked in jail and wrapped in chains;

they’re tall and slim and short on brains.

 

I’d like to see them full of stains:

their own blood oozing through their twill;

they’re on the prowl and fire at will;

they’re tall and slim and short on brains.