The KILLER

A silver truck
Passing the buck
A painter man by trade
Is this an illusion
To me his motives fade
His pet desire is killing
Our iconic kangaroo
Delusion are the keywords here
Such sophistry seems true

I see all this as guileful
With a spurious intent
On the one hand he is a painter
That appears to be his bent
But to also slaughter animals
The wild folk of the field
For me there hangs a falsity
As the rifle he doth wield

I cannot abide these killers
Who go out late at night
And become in fact assassins
For me this can’t be right
How we allow such evil
To permeate our souls
Its a veneer that operates silently
And betrays the very roles

That one expects from people
Belief is afterall
Ungrounded and unfounded
When the painter comes to call
For me its hypocritical
To slaughter kangaroos
And to also be painter
Having such extremist views

I hate the fact that animals
Are murdered everyday
And those that go out shooting them
There is no way I could pay
Anything into their pot
So they can carry on
On the pretext they are painters
But as killer they do don

The mask of the so called hunter
Who ambushes the prey
Out there in the darkness
On any given day
Butchering and murdering
Such action I despise
In pursuit of the innocent
Which i so realise

How could I have him in my home
How could I bear to be
Helping pay for his killing ways
That sickness within me
Destroys goodwill apparent
There is no way i can see
My way to ever employing him
For a victim Too I be

The suffering these creatures
Undergo Really to be
Wild and living in the bush
With their family
The angst and yes the anguish
Of feeding late at night
And being caught up in all the grief
Of a shooters bright headlight

A joey in your pouch
A pinky in their too
An ordeal for any mother
The misery they woo
The utter desolation
Of knowing that such woe
In an instant Becomes agony
as your eyes close and you know

Its all over
Thats it and for what?