Thought I heard quail comin'
I fired my gun again.
But I hit Harry this time; 
Bad news I had to spin.
All my birdshot went a-whizzin'
Oh, Harry, please hang on.
Gives me pain to be exposin' 
For what I must atone.

I babysit Bush Baby, because he's called Dim Son.
Hunting gives me such joy, to play around with guns.
But I shot a man that I know; hope he doesn't die.
Call this a crime, and I just bristle.
Harry's not dead (don't die).

(instrumental break)

They can't just put me in prison,
Because Bush's throne is mine.
The press made more than a little
Scandal, which ain't fine.
Scars from birdshot whizzin'
'Cause my aim went astray.
Wish I could hunt with a missile
And blow news crews away!

(instrumental ending)