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.
Other works by Robert W. Service...
