A churchman who hunts foxes and hares

In Dorset we hear
For wild souls it’s clear
A churchman spits fire
Rides out hunting our friends
The torturing evils of haranguing wild souls
From his pulpit of sacredness
Exerting controls
Riding alongside the torturing classes
Bloodied and ugly somehow he passes
For heavenly scriptures
For sacredness he
Enjoys the ravages
His complacency

How can the church know this pastime of hunting
Cruelty heralded subsequently
A man of the cloth goes riding with huntsman
Shares in the suffering
Imagining he
Needs the blood lust and fearfulness
All the law breaking
Hunting with dogs
A blood sport of Ill
The saboteurs all have witnessed the darkness
Wildness chased and torn
As it’s wild blood doth spill

In the forests and woods
On the plains green and peaceful
Many a wild soul frequents the true earth
Families of foxes and hares live wild lives such stresses
Feeding their families witnessing birth
The galloping steeds and the cries of the chasers
Hot breath in cold air
The hunters are heard
Along with a churchman lustful and wanting
A blood spattered end to what does sound absurd

There are laws in this country
We the believers
Wild souls live quietly
They roam silently
Families who hunt in the night
Silent warriors
Eyes glowing hearts beating
Make their own light
Clad in the hunting gear
Whips to the ready and
Hearts racing whilst chasing
What they see as foe
How can this happen
The Church of England
Turns it’s blind eyes
As the death knell doth grow.