BIRD

I N S P I R A T I O N

I do not like plucking pheasants. It is one of those jobs! If you have done it once, and that bit of information slips out, however inadvertently, people seem to come from far and wide clutching their dead birds in the hope that you can do something with them. I must have written the song during a pensive moment and perhaps trying to justify not doing it ever again. 



Lyrics

I thought of the gun, which brought you to rest,

As I pulled the feathers from your breast.

I gazed on your head once glorious and fine,

As I felt the shivers run down my spine.

Chorus

It seems somewhat hard to me.

If only man had the eyes to see,

The mindless destruction, which brings him such joy,

And the beauty in things, which he seeks to destroy.


I fingered your wind so bloody and dry,

As I stretched out the wing, which would never fly.

Your once proud legs now limp and lame,

And the structure of your fragile frame.


Your feathers bathed in autumn light,

Could there ever be a more glorious sight?

Your rainbow colours touched by the sun,

A mere target for the sporting gun?


I thought of the smatter, the crack and the smite,

Which ended the panic of your driven flight,

As the beaters moved with stick and with dog,

To flush you out from behind your log.


Paul J Openshaw (1980 something)

© Paul J Openshaw 2012