The greenwood is the king's, and all the beasts in it are his, and no one else may touch them: that's the law. And so the greenwood teems with deer, and rabbits, and boar, and meanwhile there's grit and no meat in the people's stewpots.

My father has gone to the courts to gain our rights. Maybe he'll return vindicated, with a gift for me. And then, maybe not. The king is far away, across the sea, and justice, too, has not been seen for some time.

Maybe I will have a gift for my father when he returns instead.

Am I not king here? Isn't my crooked cap a crown? Isn't my yew longbow justice, my quick eye and strong arm the only law there is?

Run, fattened rabbits, wealthy merchants, greedy nobles, gluttonous priests. The greenwood is mine, and you are my prey.