Scotland the Naive

The mountain hare
Is so aware
Lives high
Where their heads
Touch the sky
The fairy folk
In the dew soak
They are magickal
And hear the call

Such charity
Their responsiveness
In parity
With the mountain climes
With the flowers we see
With the heather
And humanity

Unmonitored unregulated
As such are fated
Shooters who
Are heartless too
The wicked stress
Shooting dead
Leaving to rot
Spiteful left there
On the spot

We are blessed
To see the Hare
The iconic ranging
Beauty there
A native of the highlands they
Are rightful to be there
To play
Among the mountain plants
They be
Shot and killed incessantly
By fiery ranting
Scottish men
Whose sport maybe
Is grouse who when

They get up onto Lammermuir
The guns ring out
And who is sure
Those white innocent souls
Lie dead
The killer bullets
In their head
The Mountains Hare
A breed most rare
An angelic soul
Loses control

Scotland cries
Each time one dies
Scotland cries

The shooters they
Are wrong all day
Something rotten
This we say
Unfitting inappropriate
Felonious the way

All words that mean
Their death
The Mountain Hare
Is everything
Is everything
Our breath
The mists that rise above the moor
The mountain Hare
For evermore

Not one Hare should be killed again not one Hare

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