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SCOTLAND'S WORST POACHER
by
Ivan Bennett

McTavish went out poaching
On Laird McDongle's land
With net and trap and snare
And a twelve bore in his hand.

He laid his snares round the rabbit holes
Set his net out in the river
Put down traps of the vicious sort
With sharp jaws that make you shiver.

So now he took his twelve bore
And roamed the hillside there
He roamed it in the gloaming
(There's a song in that, somewhere!)

He knew nothing about wildlife.
As a poacher he weren't much good.
But he hoped to bag a peasant
Or a partridge if he could!

Now, McTavish was near-sighted
Specsavers had helped him out
With inch-thick bottle bottoms
Through which he couldn't see nowt!

He heard a sort of fluttering
High up in the air
Aimed and pulled the trigger - BANG!
There were feathers everywhere!

The bird came swiftly down to earth
McTavish ran to grab it
When he saw what he had bagged
He wished he'd shot a rabbit!

For what he saw upon the ground
Lying and looking regal
Was one o' them 'protected' birds -
A bloody Golden Eagle!

How to hide the evidence?
'Cos to kill one is illegal,
They'll throw the bloody book at me
It's not like I'd shot a seagull!

I'll eat it, yes, that's what I'll do
There'll be no proof you see,
With some fava beans and a nice Chianti
I'll eat it for my tea.

And so McTavish did just that
The bones left on his plate,
He chucked upon the fire
And burned 'em in the grate.

Off to the pub he took himself
Feeling guilty about his loot
A good few whiskies later
He was as bladdered as a newt!

'Ye'll nivver gesh wor I have done!'
He dribbled to his mate.
'I shot a Golden Eagle
On McDongle's old estate!

An' because it were 'protected'
I ate the bloody bird
To hide the bloody evidence,
Now isn't that absurd?'

His mate suppressed a giggle
He couldn't help but enquire
'What does Golden Eagle taste like
You silly little liar?'

'I might be silly but I ain't no liar!'
Said McTavish, 'it ain't no con.,
If you want to know, Golden Eagle, well,
It tastes a bit like Swan!'
 
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