Anthony made cider
  From the apples in his orchard.
It made him sing and sound as if
  Some small dogs were being tortured.

He sang a song he wrote about
  A moat he tried to build.
He'd float a boat inside it
  When his garden moat was filled

With water from the drain pipes
  But he didn't get that far.
He dug a hole that filled with rain
  And then he drove his car

Into the hole one rainy night.
  It was truly stuck.
Anthony was mocked by his
  Arch-enemy, a duck.

His song went on for half an hour.
  The neighbours called around.
They were all well-able
  To identify the sound

Of songs induced by alcohol.
  The Hulk would fall if he
Took a sip of Anthony's
  Now famous herbal tea.

Some believe it's mostly rum
  And others think it's gin.
His latest batch of cider
  Was inside a metal bin.

The neighbours congregated
  In the garden as the sun
Hid behind the mountains
  And the day was nearly done.

The homemade apple cider
  Made the neighbours sing along
With Anthony's great chant in his
  Exciting hunting song.

He used to hum and sing this song
  And bring a small packed lunch
Whenever he went hunting
  On the basis of a hunch

That he would find some thing he'd like
  In some peculiar place.
He'd surely face a crisis
  If he thought he'd have to chase

And bring harm to an animal.
  He thought they had more charm
When they lived in the forest
  Rather than on someone's farm.

And all of them had much more charm
  When they were still alive.
He'd no desire to kill them
  And he loved to see them thrive.

His hunts have ended with the
  Capture of a candlestick
Or tiny plastic blackbirds
  Hiding underneath a brick.

He came across a rocking horse
  That grazed on grass around
The woods despite the sparse short grass
  Where moss and rocks abound.

When he had sung his hunting song
  The neighbours all agreed
That hunting was the one thing
  They would definitely need

Before they found an ending
  For this interesting night
As they were joined by shadows
  And the rising full moon's light.

Anthony assented to
  His guests' sincere request.
He led the hunting party
  Down a path into the west.

They didn't stop their singing
  When they didn't know the words.
The party was observed
  By the animals and birds.

A barn owl looked and listened
  But he couldn't give a hoot
About the need to sing at night
  And other faults of youth.

They didn't leave the footpath
  When it went into the woods,
Where they saw twenty people
  Who were dressed in robes and hoods.

These people formed a circle
  In a clearing where a sheep
Looked like he was hoping
  He was dreaming in his sleep.

The happy hunting party
  Were intruders in this play,
And they were made audition
  For the dreaded role of prey.

They stood inside the circle
  And they listened with concern
As someone listed out the things
  This cult would like to burn.

The cult could find a fault
  In nearly everything they saw.
Even cloudless summer skies
  Exhibited a flaw.

They were far too blue.
  Would it hurt them to turn green?
And flowers were too friendly.
  Nature's hippy dean

Should not allow the students
  To grow freely as they please,
And bring in rules on covering
  The naked limbs of trees.

They'd like to ban all cars,
  And let empty roads enthral.
Modes of transportation
  That refuse to move at all

Would then become compulsory.
  We'd ride lethargic mules,
Donkeys, pigs and garden seats
  Or even human fools.

The fools would wear a pointy hat
  That bears the letter 'D'.
When they're not playing taxi
  They'd arrange the chairs for tea.

Tea and cakes at three o' clock
  Would be a thing of fear.
If someone were to miss it
  They'd be sentenced to a year

Working in a toy shop
  Where the only toy was mud,
And every customer complained
  That they'd been sold a dud.

Houses would be banned as well.
  We'd live in holes instead.
Six or seven fools would join
  To make a single bed.

This is what the cult believed.
  They never once felt doubt.
They were set for action
  But before they brought about

Their plan to spread the good life
  They would need a sacrifice,
Something less than elephants
  But more than rats or mice.

Anthony decided he
  Should speak up in defence
Of simple joys and ample highs
  With cans of beer in tents.

He spoke of lazy Saturdays
  And jokes concerning pants,
And sipping homemade cider
  While the moths perform their dance.

The cult conferred amongst themselves.
  Doubt had raised its head.
They were clearly taken by
  What Anthony had said.

The leader spoke. He said he hoped
  The sheep would understand
Why they had to abandon
  All the rituals they'd planned.

The metal bin of cider
  Was too tempting to ignore.
They all went back to empty it
  And sing till they were sore.