<strong>The</strong> following are genuine extracts from motor claim formsreceived by a large insurance company in London :a .b .My car was stolen, and I set up a human cry, but it hasnot been recovered .Coming home I drove into the wrong house, and collided witha tree I haven't got . I cannot give details of the accidentas I was somewhat confused at the time .c . <strong>The</strong> water in my radiator accidentally froze at 12 midnight .d . A lamp post bumped into my car, damaging it in two places .e . I blew my horn, but it would not work as it was stolen .Compiled by Anonymous Think .LYDIAWARDEN
THECHASELoud colour and colourful noiseSet the scene . Like a gang of young boys<strong>The</strong> farmers - now huntsmen - are mounted, enthralled,Remembering scenes that others appalled,Awaiting the call that will mean they are off,Land-owners, gamekeeper, noble and toff,On the chase for the fox (or the blood or the pubs ;It's all wholesome sport . To hell with the cubs!<strong>The</strong> more that die, the less will breed .If the litter starve - for they cannot feed -What matter, so long as THEY get their pleasure,And a corpse at the end, won, as if priceless treasureWere stored inside . A valueless hide, the spoil of their ride ;Though in the marquee, roast, boiled and fried<strong>The</strong>y may even find . . . but the daydream is brokenBy the bray of a horn, the inestimable tokenof battle . As it glints in the sun, a complexion of blood,Like the Master's coat, bespattered with mudBefore very long, would seem to forebodeA picture of Britons, blue-painted with woad,Savagely stalking and taking their quarryTo eat . But a dismal reflection is this, and a sorry,<strong>The</strong> annual Meet, of those hunters so fleet,Those primitive spearmen, in quest of their meat,Who thought but to live, not to render extinctA fellow creature, by ancestry linkedTo th'assassins, the hounds, its one-time brother,Though through taming and training now bound to another .THEY ride for the bloodlust, nothing more,Free from the fears of those tribesmen of yore .No threat of starvation hangs over their bellies,Replete with chicken, pudding and jellies!<strong>The</strong>y risk their lives, their horses too -Which may break a leg, or just lose a shoe -For the first they are shot, the second reshod -"But the rider is happy, so who cares a sod?"<strong>The</strong> chase goes on, o'er ditch and o'er clay,Till th'exhausted fox turns, defiant, at bay .<strong>The</strong> showdown is here ; the end at hand ; 'tis never very brief,Though the sportsman for his victim shows no sign of grief .<strong>The</strong> cries of the hunters will soon be drownedIn the shrieks of the hunted - a spine-chilling sound .But no-one feels guilt - the fox HAD to die -So now they return to fresh rabbit pie .Anthony Bradstreet, Schol . VI .Awarded 1st Prize - C .G .S . Senior Verse and Essay Competition,<strong>1970</strong> .