None but a nun knows what she’s done

Some call me judgemental
But some do not care
Nuns that go hunting
And take their god there

They are the epitome
Of Sicko’s you see
They should stay in
Their convent
And just let us be

We are born of the wild
Children we be
We live, where we were put
Our place is to run free

For nuns to buy guns
And hunt us each day
Read out their rosaries
And even pray

They need more than God
In their sick diocese
Where is their compassion
We live with the trees

In the cold in the forest
Thats where we roam
Not in some dark convent
That psycho’s call home

Learn we are a species
With as much right to be
Where we were placed
By the great god he

Did not make us targets
And never said we were game
To be abused and just hunted
Like these sicko’s claim

Hiding on platforms like ghosts
In the dark
Pulling their triggers
Leaving their mark

They clearly are
a delusional lot
And misguided actually
Which we are not

Come to our aid will you
Activists you
Are our last chance
So do what you can do

And thanks