These so called marvellous breeding places
Pheasants and Partridges
Get to be
Made to lay millions of eggs
Have chicks it’s for the shooters, we
Hear them clucking on about
Amazing standards and short cuts none
Looked after in their lovely cages
Heart Of England fire the gun
Other than properly cared for creatures
Fed and watered and loved to bits
A reporter happened to be right there
And saw an injury at the pits
Of what could be described
As Hellish damage
A full prolapse and there it sat
Screaming out in utter terror
In filthy cages where it was at
No vet around just shit and widdle
Blood and vomit painful cries
It’s soaked feathers
Gaping wounds
An arse third class
Tending we see
Filthy gloves and bloodied body
Pushing the innards back was he
Imagine the sickening unrelenting
agony
The shooting mobsters this young hen
Would end up traversing water hell
Screaming from her busted Base frame
So small yet a dreadful smell
She oh dear an egg producer
Stressing over all that she
Was put on earth to carry out
A miracle apparently
But due to crazy hazy working
Dirty filthy nasty souls
Who look at this as just a victim
Where the hell are the controls
To be shot by gangs of shooters
Lead at the ready toxic stew
Beaters frighten
They fly skywards
That’s what any of them do
On fear we lift our precious bodies
Feathers flapping off we go
Wait for the lead shot, to down us
A contaminant as well we know.
These poor birds entirely vulnerable
Look into their eyes so clear
Suffering enormous pain
No painkillers their awful fear
Brought down to drown perhaps in water
No one cares no not at all
Shooting pretty birds is great fun
Just watch them spiral as they fall.
Homage to a neglected terribly injured egg laying pheasant for the shooting industry that supposedly never puts a foot wrong.
Rex Tyler is a Poet, Campaigner, former owner of an organic shop of 30 years, and Public Speaker living in Berkhamsted, UK.