Rex Tyler's Poetry Blog

Imagine the title
Hunting and fishing
Blood sports
On innocent wild Birds
Here’s wishing

All those old a holes
Murdering who
Miss lethal shots
That’s what they do
Loads of dying birds
Such agony
Their past lives relived
In the wild symphony

Of New Zealand
The countryside
Imagine they
Lie in their blood
Broken wings so to say
And you are the Minister
You over see
These idiot shooters
Who like to be

Giving their death notes
Into the air
Each has a heart and a soul
And does share
A life with all of us
That’s what they do
Til these a holes
Come shooting
And so very few

Are actually killed outright
Imagine their pain
Missing their families
Getting wet in the rain
In what you call SPORT
Which takes little thought
Cordite and gunfire
Noise and yea fear

Cut down these wild ducks
Dear Hearts
Yea just thinking
Beautiful souls
Up against these old farts
Cross eyed and stupid
Heartless as hell
Pumping out cartridges
A peculiar smell

Death all around
Thousands we know
And you a paid minister
Part of the show
Wounded and bleeding
Dying a slow
Death gasping breath
Yes you ought to know

Gifted to your country
And fired off to Hell
So many thoughtless
Under the spell
Of blood lust and killing
For no reason they
Fly on their wings
And are shot anyway

Fished out of cool lakes
And rivers some too
Minister of fishing
Of course it is true
Dealing with death with torture
With pain
These innocent creatures
Feel the disdain
And you are the Minister
You ought to see
How creation feels
To the millionth degree