Busby‘s

The now dead Queen
Had allowed black bears
To be shot at Dawn
Despite their prayers
Hardly awake from Winters Sleep
The need for fur
And how they reap
The death and ugliness
Apparently
And turns them into
Infamy

Now it’s the King
Riches galore
Lands and houses
And more and more
Black bears shot
All mothers who
Lose their babies
Because of you

These Royal Guards
Swelter under these hats
Some flake out
Like weakly brats
So many dead bears
So many cubs
Who rot in the ground
Under the snow
where their bones are found

When will the rich
Realise we
Working people
do honestly
Love the animals
For who they be
And shouldn’t Be made into hats