Fat
John to the hunt is gone
With his horse and his hound and his hawk.
His hawk was his eyes
And his hound was his ears
And his horse saved a bloody long walk.
His hunting bow was finest yew
And his hunting knife was a dandy,
With a saw-tooth blade for stripping off hides
And another for ripping out deer's insides
And a thing for getting Boy Scouts out of Girl Guides
Which oft times came in handy.
Fat
John to the hunt rode on
And the hunting horn did sound it,
With 'is 'awk on 'is 'and
And 'is 'ound at 'is 'eels
And 'is 'orse with 'is arse 'ung round it.
And such a haul he made that day
The way that I've heard tell of it:
For to clothe his back, he shot a bear;
Shot a fox for a fur for his lady fair;
He shot four pheasant for a feast so rare
And a hedgehog (just for the hell of it).
Yes,
such a haul he made that day
As a scholar might make a book of:
He shot a wild boar to make pork chops;
Shot a stork that had shat on his chimney tops;
Shot a sheep that he swore had been at his crops,
And a badger that he didn't like the look of.
And
on and on rode fat Lordy John
'Til word is come from the nurse
That his poor old wife on the birthing bed
Back home was bad and getting worse.
But John's had word of a mighty herd
On the far side of the bog,
So away he's rode till he come to a crag
Whereon stood a roaring twelve-point stag
Whose antlers soon were in John's bag
And his bollocks in the belly of the dog.
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Fat
John gazed wide on the countryside
That his bow had brought to ruin.
Says he "Good sport. Now I s'pose I ought
Go and see how the old girl's doin' "
Then, "Let's away," Fat John did say
"For home and hearth and honour!"
Pausing only to slaughter a dozen grouse
Put his hound at a hare and his hawk at a mouse
He rode, till he came to his own dear house
Where he found that his wife was a goner.
Fat
John… Well, what a carry on,
And did he rant and curse?
He shot his dog.
He shot his horse.
He shot the hawk.
He shot the nurse.
"Oh, woe is me!" cried fat Sir John
"As I come not at her biddance.
Oh woe is me!" And he took his gun
And he shot his newborn, only son
And then for the sake of a job well done
He shot himself. And good riddance.
Now,
the people from the country round
Both urban and argrarian
Revolting at
What John the Fat
Had done, turned veg-i-tarian.
So the funeral feast was vegan:
They even had Vegemite in their Twiglets…
And
they buried his wife with her newborn son
They buried the nurse and they buried Fat John…
But the hedgehog he shot in Verse 1
(Though halt and lame, with one eye gone)
Survived the day, and in fact lived on
To have three fine hedgepiglets.
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