The bull has got out and has gone down the road.
His nose is right up, he's in escape mode.
The postie has cleared an old five barred gate.
His letters are scattered, he looks in a state.
And old Mrs Smith is out there collecting wood,
but the bull is heading to right where she's stood.
I shall hop over the fence and cut off the corner,
or I won't get there in time and I do need to warn her.
I hold down the wire but get hooked by the crutch,
I used to jump over, but I've lost my touch.
I am balanced quite lightly with feet on tip toes,
with the barbs stuck quite firmly on to my clothes.
I fiddle and pull and try and break free,
and curse and think why does this happen to me.
My wellies are sinking, the materials stuck tight.
I struggle and twist, I'm wrapped up in my plight.
I hear the bull snort and my jeans give a rip,
they have teared from the crutch right round to my hip.
I race off with my stick to save Mrs Smith,
and I shout out to tell her I'll be there in a jiff.
But I needn't have worried, she's the bull by the ring.
She's leading him home on a frayed bit of string.
He's walking behind her just like a wee lamb,
she's in total control, she don't give a dam.
She looks at my trousers splattered with blood,
with my knickers protruding,covered in mud.
She hands me the bull as if he was a kitten,
I pick up the string that was wrapped round her mitten.
Next day on my doorstep I find a small box,
right in the top is a new pair of socks.
And carefully wrapped are a new pair of knickers
still in a packet and covered in stickers
Hand written with care she'd left a short letter,
she thought that my leg should soon get much better.
She said that she hoped I'd avoid barbed wire fences,
and would pray that next time I would use all my senses.