O plucky musteline asshole of the English hedgerow!
Grumpy when disturbed, vomiting carrion
and rolling in horse excrement - truly,
the petty proprieties of the wittering classes
are but gnats ghosting the salt and pepper roll
of your stately buttocks. Go then, old friend,
mince partridge eggs in your stinking gob
and regurgitate the remains; stroll the hedgerows
like a drunk and senile Duke, wear your gout
like chainmail. If we were to cull you,
you would only flow together: mercurial,
phlegmatic, a bum made flesh, a legend.