The Pigeon Shooting

 They say that Monte Carlo is
A sunny place for shady people;
But I'm not in the gambling biz,
And sober as a parish steeple.

so though this paradisal spot
The devil's playground of the rich is,
I love it and I love it not,
As men may sometimes fall for bitches.


I lazed beneath the sky's blue bliss,
The sea swooned with a sequin glimmer;
The breeze was shy as maiden kiss,
The palms sashayed in silken shimmr.

The peace I soaked in every pore
did me more good than ten religions .
 .
 .

And then: Bang! Bang! my joy was o'er;
Says I: "There goes them poor dam pigeons.
"

I see them bob from out their traps,
the swarded green aroud them ringing;
bewildered, full of joy perhaps,
With sudden hope of skyway winging.

They blink a moment at the sun,
They flutter free of earthy tether .
 .
 .

A fat man holds a smoking gun,
A boy collects some blood and feather.


And so through all the sainted day,
Bang! Bang! a bunch of plumage gory.

Five hundred francs they cost to slay,
And few there live to tell the story .
 .
 .

Yet look! there's one so swift to fly,
Despite the shots a course he's steering .
 .
 .

Brave little bird! he's winging high,
He's gained the trees - I feel like cheering.


In Monte Carlo's garden glades
With dreamful bliss one softly lingers,
And lazily in leafy shades
The doves pick breadcrumbs from one fingers .
 .
 .

Bang! Bang! Farewell, oh sylvan courts!
Where peace and joy are sweetly blended .
 .
 .

God curse these lousy Latin sports!
My pigeons scat, my dream is ended.

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