County

God save me from the Porkers,

    God save me from their sons,

Their noisy tweedy sisters

    Who follow with the guns,

The old and scheming mother,

    Their futures that she plann’d,

The ghastly younger brother

    Who married into land.

Their shots along the valley

    Draw blood out of the sky,

The wounded pheasants rally

    As hobnailed boots go by.

Where once the rabbit scampered

    The waiting copse is still

As Porker fat and pampered

    Comes puffing up the hill.

“A left and right! Well done, sir!

    They’re falling in the road;

And here’s your other gun, sir.”

    “Don’t talk. You’re here to load.”

He grabs his gun, not seeing

    A thing but birds in air,

And blows them out of being

    With self-indulgent stare.

Triumphant after shooting

    He still commands the scene,

His Land Rover comes hooting

    Beaters and dogs between.

Then dinner with a neighbour,

    It doesn’t matter which,

Conservative or Labour,

    So long as he is rich.

A faux-bonhomme and dull as well,

    All pedigree and purse,

We must admit that, though he’s hell,

    His womenfolk are worse.

Bright in their county gin sets

    They tug their ropes of pearls

And smooth their tailored twin-sets

    And drop the names of earls.

Loud talk of meets and marriages

    And tax-evasion’s heard

In many first-class carriages

    While servants travel third.

“My dear, I have to spoil them too—

    Or who would do the chores?

Well, here we are at Waterloo,

    I’ll drop you at the Stores.”

God save me from the Porkers,

    The pathos of their lives,

The strange example that they set

    To new-rich farmers’ wives

Glad to accept their bounty

    And worship from afar,

And think of them as county—

    County is what they are.