In March in year Two Thou and Nine,
You may recall, a gun
Was something thought not very fine –
Not even owned for fun.
One had to turn each weapon in
To your cop-shop nearby,
Or be arrested for the sin
Your gun, to keep, to try.
‘All jolly well and good,’ I said,
‘But what if robbers take
Ideas into each crooked head
A raid on them to make?
‘Then crooks will have my firearms –
All I can throw right back
Are insults, which for bod’ly harms
Creation, show a lack!’
I like my sticks that bang and pop,
Projecting chunks of lead …
‘Apply for licence you can’t stop
Me doing!’ ‘s what I said.
And so it was, right then and there,
Filled papers by the score;
Gave fingerprints, and tore my hair,
When, info., they asked more!
And then I had to write a quiz
With answers weird and wild,
It was a tricky little biz
Remaining meek and mild.
From there I had to take a course
On how to shoot, one morn –
‘Oh come; I’d shooting skills in force
Before you, son, were born!’
Certificate they handed me
To show com-pet-en-cy –
Which, had they not, then off their tree
They’d have branched out to be.
And then they said that I should wait …
I waited for a year …
And yet another, was my fate …
And then for nine months clear …
(Oh, in this time, they did request
A picture of my safe
Where guns were stored; I thought it best
If them such thing I gafe.)
And this month came an SMS –
They had something for me –
Two cards; and yet another … guess? …
Cert. of Com-pet-en-cy!
‘Now, lamb-inate this!’ they did cry,
Though, with its size, it’s fate
Is that I think I’d rather try
To make that ‘sheep-inate’!
And now when guns in safe I store,
Or carry, out of sight,
I’m totally within the law –
My cards give me the right!
© Colonialist December 2011 (Letterdash/WordPress)