It was a swell time warbling summit
For diverse feathered species that had
Dared to flap across the blue sea
From beyond main girt climes
Winging into charmed Hokera;
But their dream bliss was shot
Down to ashes by the true blue Nawab
The cruel eyed willow wielder
Who won them in a sport of consummate murder
Without batting an eye.
The score was two hundred -
Cricket groaned not he
But his taste for the gory game
Out flavoured his palate for the glorious one;
As he patted the royal cooks
Braising the plumed plenty
On spits to be dished up
For select tongues.
The killer couple at the spot
Of shikar killed their boredom
In trigger-happy ecstasy blasting
The breaths of chirping angels
And their nuptial plumage.
But this sanguinary sport
Left the royal feathers unruffled
After
The stumped fowls were drawn