Patricide

Grown men they call themselves
Deceitful gits
Pompous and arrogant
Ignorant shits
They need to be mocked
For imposters they be
Duplicitous dumb nuts
Steeped in cruelty

It’s all very secretive
On the pretence that they
Are known in the town
The Brain dead might say
Men of importance
Men of acclaim
They reckon themselves
It’s like playing some kgame

Hypocritical creeps
With a treacherous stink
They ride out early
None of them think
It’s called Autumn Hunting
Their nonsensical way
With their
Terrier buddies
Part of the display

They block up the underground holes
Vixens their
Way to escape
Nothing is fair
The hounds must be trained
To see and to kill
And cubs running off
Their blood they must spill

It’s an ugly vile exercise
Which I Abhor
Deliberate intent proposals galore
Iniquitous failings
Outrageous abuse
Annoyance and angst
If the cubs are let loose

Business men councillors
Goodness knows who
Most reckon themselves
That’s what they do
Call themselves countrymen
They don’t have a clue
About the wild soulful
You can feel just how true

My words are
How harmful how hurtful
What mischief they ply
Spiteful and wicked
Reaching up to the sky

Natures perfection
The flawless below
In the earth the fox family
A consummate show
A sense of security
A guarantee
A means of escape
And the right place to be.

Hunting the babies
Getting them killed
Training the hounds
Til their bodies are filled
Blood lust and evil
Everything’s spilled
It’s Patricide
It’s evil and wrong
The deniers despite this
Join the wild throng