The hunters

I have experienced life first hand
Being the son of a Poacher man
A countryman in the nineteen twenties
In a family 10 boys and 2 girls an
Living in lower BEADING in Sussex
All that time ago
Hares and trout and deer about
When Boys just had to know

How to tickle trout and see off Game
And get their tea
So my father encouraged us to help him
And to be
WitH the chickens and the rabbits
And to see they didn’t run
To collect the eggs and kill the birds
When their time on earth was done

Something I would never do
I mean it wasn’t right
We had some 20 chickens
And a dozen rabbits I
Could no more ring their tender necks
With my hands and see them die
I was called the cissy
The writer of poems who
Should be wearing dresses
It’s not what good sons do

And so when I read of the van Heerdens
A hunting family they
Clearly followed their father
In the most awful way
They run a mean safari group
In South Africa I hear
Where you can kill farmed Lions
Half cocked something not to fear

Picked up and petted by children
Taken from their mum
All their lives in cages
They make a fair old sum
Killing is called harvesting
Originally you see
Workers on the lands
Were called farmers actually

But it became so lucrative
to just breed Lions
And use
Their bodies and their bone structure
Really just abuse
The greatest Kings that ever walked
Be brutal everyday
Trophy Lions for Heartless twits
Who cannot wait to pay

It’s so profitable more so than
Growing fruit
Farming lions the profit margin
Really it does suit
Every greedy bugger in South
Africa does give
His heart and soul to Canned hunting
Where fewer wild lIONs live

Off the chart and money will be
Coming past your door
Hand over fist can you resist
Killing them and more
It’s cruelty personified
And all you have to be
Is evil right down through your guts
Into eternity

And that is what is happening
Bastards in the West
Who earned their princely sums
Doing things I do detest
And then go off to Africa
and strut their stuff and will
Kill the drugged up victims
Watch the blood just spill

Out of them they sit there
Thinking we are their friends
They may even walk right up to us
But that is where it ends
The rifles pop like crazy
A lot of shots to kill
And many miss they take the piss
Their actions they just chill

In earnest we should close them down
Every single one
throw the bastards into gaol
The only exercise they get
Is being whipped from head to tail
Use the cat o nine tails on them.
Scar them up for life
Brand them murdering devils
Let them live the strife

The trophy I would give them
Is feed them to the sharks
The great whites would appreciate
Eating all these nArks
Rotters bandits spivs and traitors
That’s their reward we
Dip them in fresh blood and guts
And dip them in the sea