No pain, no gain

No pain, no gain

‘The problem with shooting clays is they feel no pain.
Broken china whizzing through the air’s no fun at all. 
I’ve paid a thousand pounds for the adrenaline thrill
Of proper slaughter. And even then there’s no real gain
In seeing feathers flying unless you can feel them dying,  
A bigger buzz is when you ride to hounds. That doesn’t pall!
Pheasants are bloody daft anyway.’

In too-new stalking gear the shooters rose
Squashed face-to-face in the back of the Defender. 
Barbour checks dubbed ‘Prince of Wales’ abounding, 
Balmoral hunter boots for all. Not one of those
Fabled Arab princes flown in for the fun had come that way, 
Just hedge fund nabobs relishing their spree of killing,
Decked out as ‘county set’ for the day.

Local yokels properly servile clutching hazel wands
To beat the sodden underbrush, stand by in silence
Ready for the order to move off to the next beat on the 
Other side of the mash. The keeper, fired with self-importance, 
And impatient to chivvy them on, whistles and claps his hands,
Revs his quad, the trailer filled with corpses. We’re off, O.K!
‘This lot won’t bag much today.’

A purple face glares from the back of the brake as I waited, 
Wanting to pass. ‘Are you aware that we’re out shooting?
And to hell with your right of way!’ Eyes meet in mutual hatred. 
He thinks, ‘That pathetic pipsqueak in his Polo needs booting
Up the arse.  I think in symmetry: ‘That pseudo upper-crust bastard
Wants his twelve-bore up the crupper. I’d like to see him plastered
All over the highway!