Lord Blurton rose from the bushes and mustard plants
armed with a flintlock and a bellicose temprament
that was legendary, owing to heriditary indigestion
and a diet that consisted almost entirely of meat.
Indeed, even as he took aim, the remains of a woodpigeon
hung from a slack corner of his gob,
the side where he'd had the stroke after seeing proof
of his eldest son's clandestine Whiggery.
'Jeremy my boy, this is goodbye,' he told his heir,
and squeezed the trigger. Jeremy took the lead ball
square in the throat. He dropped, clucking like a peacock,
while his father chomped some goose.
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