Iceland 143 and and 144 second poem

Music playing on the dock
Music while they flense
Puddles all about the dock
Clearly the men are dense
Clearly they lack respect for life
Butchers of the sea
Fancy getting paid for flensing flesh
It sickens me

They know nothing of probity
These poor whales take the hit
These grenades are just agony
And the whalers where they sit
They do not always hit the whale
To kill them in one go
They bleed out dying in the swell
Drowning as we know

A great beast of the ocean
Dying in this way
Then dragged across the ocean
To the dock
What can one say
Who in their right mind
Would go to iceland
Well i can say not me
Not a penny would I spend there
Such infidelity

If you want to stop this
Its his pocket we must hit
Stop buying into icelandic fish
Thats how we can pit
Our wits against this rotter
Who just snubs
his nose
and how ever many e mails
They get from the likes of you
They will get their quotas
And each year the kill rate grows.

I would