94. The Bunny Hunter

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I fancy a bit of a hunting
For the creatures of the field;
I shoot them high
I shoot them nigh
For the bounties they will yield.

But every shot played is all a-fowl
A Pheasant upon my plate;
I am in need
Of a different breed
To appease my starving state.

The Birds are all one of a feather
In a tree that strains their squawks;
It is unfair
To lose all my hare
Because I can find naught but their flocks.

I fancied a bit of a hunting
For the creatures of the field;
But not in this place
Will I find latent grace,
Only mad bony Cuckoos revealed.

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