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:
See also Hunting Season in France; La Chasse.