Song of the Scourge of Terrible Beasts

When badgers the size of Fiat Pandas
plod from their sets to ravage the Parish
like mutant bandits - when lazy Sundays
are ruined by killer moles, nightmarish
woodlice from Hell's Hearth
threaten the whole Earth
or fieldmice menace - when nature's wonders
meet man's godplay and people perish

call on us. We're the professionals,
the badass arm of the MoD,
this century's heroes, humanity's sentinals,
the anti-terrorbeast unit - we
have fought vengeful mammals
from hyenas to camels,
monster earwigs that came from the crucibles
of public urinals, sheep that prey,

tuna like phalanxes, monkeys with Lugers,
eyepatches, Cuban cigars and a penchant
for riding crops, Gangs of avian muggers -
pigeons with flickknives, pheasants who gallivant
all round the country
shooting at the gentry -
fire-belching immigrant Bengal tigers,
the odd waterboatman enemy agent.

We're fearless and burly, our counter-intelligence
second-to-none and we love a good tussle.
We're worse than the beasts themselves; our arrogance
trumps their rage. They roar, we whistle
and shrug off injury
like the autumn of lingerie
girls shower on us - there's no time for dalliance!
Cradling our shattered ribs, onward we wrestle,

rough and relentless as desert winds.
Weapons unleashed at the flash of a fang,
we take out the wildlife, dish out head-wounds
in an age where God's creatures do their own thing.
We're in opposition
to privatisation -
just imagine this job as an industry, friends.
Stick with the scourge. You can't go wrong.