They’re shooting pigeons up in the air

shooting wild boar berserk in the woods,

they sway in the corn with their rifles loaded

aim with the warm red wine in their veins

shoot their leader in the foot

shoot their neighbour on the shins

fifty pellets to miss one bird,

rabbits scurry into their burrows.

They try again, again and again

a bullet here and a bullet there

bullets everywhere, and merde

to us quivering behind closed doors

until they reel back home:

Real men.

See also  Hunting Season in France; La Chasse.