Title: Dennis Moore
            From: Monty Python's Flying Circus
  Transcribed By: unknown


England, 1747
 
(Sounds of a coach and horses, galloping)
 
Cleese:  Stand and deliver!
Chapman: Not on your life (SHOT) ... aagh!
 
(Girl screams)
 
Cl: Let that be a warning to you all.  You move at your peril, for I have two
    pistols here.  I know one of them isn't loaded any more, but the other one
    is, so that's one of you dead for sure...or just about for sure anyway.  It
    certainly wouldn't be worth your while risking it because I'm a very good
    shot.  I practise every day...well, not absolutely every day, but most days
    in the week.  I expect I must practise, oh, at least four or five times a
    week...or more, really, but some weekends, like last weekend, there really
    wasn't the time, so that brings the average down a bit.  I should say it's
    a solid four days' practice a week...At least...I mean...I reckon I could
    hit that tree over there.  Er...the one just behind that hillock.  The
    little hillock, not the big one on the...you see the three trees over
    there?  Well, the one furthest away on the right...  (fade)
 
(Fade up again)
 
Cl:  What's the...  the one like that with the leaves that are sort of
     regularly veined and the veins go right out with a sort of um...
Girl: Serrated?
Cl: Serrated edges.
Id: A willow!
Cl: Yes.
Id: That's nothing like a willow.
Cl: Well it doesn't matter, anyway.  I can hit it seven times out of ten,
    that's the point.
Id: Never a willow.
Cl: Shut up!  It's a hold-up, not a Botany lesson.  Now, no false moves
    please.  I want you to hand over all the lupins you've got.
Jones: Lupins?
Cl: Yes, lupins. Come on, come on.
Id: What do you mean, lupins?
Cl: Don't try to play for time.
Id: I'm not, but... the *flower* lupin?
Cl: Yes, that's right.
Jo: Well we haven't got any lupins.
Girl: Honestly.
Cl:  Look, my friends.  I happen to know that this is the Lupin Express.
Jo: Damn!
Girl: Oh, here you are.
Cl: In a bunch, in a bunch!
Jo: Sorry.
Cl: Come on, Concorde! (Gallops off)
Chorus (sings):
 Dennis Moore, Dennis Moore, galloping through the sward,
 Dennis Moore, Dennis Moore, and his horse Concorde.
 He steals from the rich, he gives to the poor,
 Mr Moore, Mr Moore, Mr Moore.