The gamekeeper walks, shotgun in hand,
A frown on his face, he litters the land
With barrels and bags of game bird feed,
With cages and wire, and bodies that bleed.
The bodies of animals killed by his gun
Are hung on the tree, one by one.
With hardness of heart, and misery of soul,
The gamekeeper’s is a grotesque role.
Day after day, and year after year
He does his job with no guilt and no fear.
What he doesn’t know is that someone is watching
And when the storm comes … his clock will stop ticking.
Land Rover won’t start, the engine’s kaput,
The storm closes in as he trudges on foot.
He strides for the castle, to find some shelter,
He’s whipped by debris as the wind rises higher.
It’s darker now as the rain lashes down.
The ravens watch the sinister clown.
He’s soaked and he’s angry, he yells at the sky,
And the lightening yells back “And now you must die!”