The bowmen stepped up to the line
A twinkle in his eye;
Knocked his feathered arrow,
And set a shaft to fly.
The paper Gnomes in pendulous sleeves
About the Maiden lurked
The bowman knocked his arrow,
And aimed for the gnomes skirt.
A pompous Gnome of paper fell,
Pierced through its pendulous part.
The Maiden squealed in mortal fear
As the next Gnome missed her heart.
The bowman launched a flurry,
Of finely painted shafts;
Any many many portly Gnomes,
Were felled with arrows in their arse.
And so the field of valore was cleared,
Of foe that sunny May Day,
With every ignoble Gnome set,
To rotting in the hay.
The moral here is QUITE plain,
For all who seek to laugh;
The fool who insults an archer's sure...
To find an arrow in his arse.
