They chase them down
through field and town
intending then to eat em'
with plastic forks
and champagne corks
they wallop and they beat em'

They chase by day
and most the night
though I can't understand em'
through thistle grass
and snowy pass
with knives they roughly brand em'

With Caber tossed
and y-fronts lost
these skirted men assault em'
big burly men
with beards yer ken
you really cannot fault em'

With claymore sharp
and Scottish harp
they catch and set to roast em'
with whiskey ryes
And blood shot eyes
these hunters fair do toast em'

Behind every good man is a woman with a Hoover

What's behind the hedge?
a field
what's beyond the field?
a lane
what lies down the lane?
a friend
What's the friends name?
Don't know


I haven't met them yet.