Walking in the Welsh hills,

This is really very pleasant,

With Jamal, Azizi, Ali.

Oh no, they've caught a pheasant.

 

They did it with their bare hands

Got to admit they're quick.

Surrounded it, then closed in -

a bloody clever trick.

 

These poor guys are destitute.

They're looking at a dinner

The government keeps them starving.

They're hunters with a winner.

 

They're tickled pink.

They're pleased as punch

Want to wring its neck and bag it.

Bring on tomorrow's lunch!

 

I hesitate a moment

Ali's hands'd be merciful and quick.

Not like death in the jaws of a fox

or being shot by some rich dick

head.

 

Why should some English bloke

tell them what's wrong and right?

I don't have all the wisdom

Just cos I'm local and white.

 

They don't have my soft sense of sympathy

for the struggling frightened bird

That only makes sense to the English

If you're hungry it just seems absurd.

 

But we live in fear of the papers

What the f***ing Daily Mail will say.

All it takes is some sneak with a mobile phone

And of this they will make hay.

 

So I tell them the bird was raised by a farmer

He makes money by having it shot.

His living is its dying.

It's wrong to take it for our pot.

 

They let it go, they're good lads really

And smiled as it squawked away.

But was I wrong to poop the party

Let fear and respectability darken the day?

 

And, by the by,

Should we in this life

keep what we catch?

Or let it fly away

and look for a better match?