The Beceite Ibex

Nothing that’s wild seems sacred
Today
In the East Spanish mountains
The Ibex they say
With wrinkled ringed horns
And fleet of foot,they
Climb up the precarious ridges
All day

Camouflage suits
Waxed up faces as well
Rifles that pick out
Slight movement
They sell
Themselves from afar
The horns how they play
Their eyes on those hillocks
From far far away

Bagging a trophy
High mountain hunts
The universe matters
But these lousy kunts
They could use a camera
A telescope too
But they shoot to kill
What else do they do

Take out a life
Cause strife to the rest
All their tenacity
They do invest
Wildness and naturalness
Hearing it all
Picking out sights and sounds
Each forest call

The click of the trigger
The flash of the light
The adrenaline boost
As the soul comes in sight
That’s the psychopathic
The murdering phase
Hunters assassins
Where each victim pays

Here the great Ibex
The handsome one’s hit
They twinge and they cry
it’s the hunters shit
High fiving surviving
That’s is how they
Just want to kill
What ever is out there
It’s blood they will spill

Just back from Spain
Lost in it all
The camouflage psycho’s
They answer each call
With a swift aim and bullets
That race through the air
And cut down the elders
Who seemed unaware

Wild souls stand little or no chance
Today
With their high powered rifles
The animals pay
This is not hunting it’s poaching it’s vile
This is just killing
It’s way off the dial

Heartless and brutal
Wretched and sick
Unsightly and ravaged
They are mostly thick
Just craven hearted
Dastardly too
Shabby and squalid
And rotten right through