I went out to the local wood
Because a pain was in my arse,
And then I did what ne’er I should:
I lit a fire with twigs and grass.
And then I took a fishing rod,
And caught a seven kilo pike,
But then the keeper, rotten sod,
Came after me on his push bike.
“Hey, you, Arsehole!” the fellow cried,
“You’re caught red-handed poaching fish”.
“Not me, my man”, I blandly lied,
Try proving it, if so you wish.”
I threw the pike back in the pond,
But then, oh dear, my little fire
Had swept across the wood beyond,
And set ablaze a patch of briar.
“You did that purposely”, cried he,
“I’ll set the rozzers onto you,
A-sewing mailbags you will be
For arson, ten long years and true!”
He tried to grab me by the coat,
But I resisted like a man,
I punched him in his scrawny throat,
And like a rabbit off I ran.
The flames the Sherwood Forest kissed,
And burned a nearby village down,
And I’d become an arsonist
Of infamy and ill-renown.
Though I am old and going grey,
Still I am running from the law,
For if they catch me I will pay
By being gaoled forevermore.
I curse the keeper of the game
Reporting me to CID,
For if he hadn’t known my name
A citizen I still would be
Instead of this, a vagabond;
Sometimes I wish, God rest my head,
I’d kept the pike, and in the pond
I’d thrown that grassing git instead.
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