County

God save me from the Porkers
God save me from their sons
Their noisy tweedy sisters
Who follow with the guns
The old and scheming mother
Their futures that she plann'd
The ghastly younger brother
Who married into land

Their shots along the valley
Draw blood out of the sky
The wounded pheasants rally
As hobnailed boots go by
Where once the rabbit scampered
The waiting copse is still
As Porker fat and pampered
Comes puffing up the hill

"A left and right! Wеll done, sir!
They're falling in thе road;
And here's your other gun, sir."
"Don't talk. You're here to load."
He grabs his gun, not seeing
A thing but birds in air
And blows them out of being
With self-indulgent stare

Triumphant after shooting
He still commands the scene
His Land Rover comes hooting
Beaters and dogs between
Then dinner with a neighbour
It doesn't matter which
Conservative or Labour
So long as he is rich

A faux-bonhomme and dull as well
All pedigree and purse
We must admit that, though he's hell
His womenfolk are worse
Bright in their county gin sets
They tug their ropes of pearls
And smooth their tailored twin-sets
And drop the names of earls

Loud talk of meets and marriages
And tax-evasion's heard
In many first-class carriages
While servants travel third
"My dear, I have to spoil them too
Or who would do the chores?
Well, here we are at Waterloo
I'll drop you at the Stores."

God save me from the Porkers
The pathos of their lives
The strange example that they set
To new-rich farmers' wives
Glad to accept their bounty
And worship from afar
And think of them as county
County is what they are