The Canned/TrophyHunter and the Indigenous counterpart

The wild uncomplicated threat
Of hunting in the raw
Of understanding nature
And what its all here for
Of making ones own weaponry
And squaring up to be
Equal to the foe out there
Whoever that may be

For them it is subsistence
The hunter gatherer who
Needs to feed his family
A perfectly normal view
He who walks in ways of wisdom
Who makes his pipes and spears
Furnished by the forest
And it happens it appears

On a similar principle to
The animal carnivore
Who will take a sick or injured soul
Thats hunting in the raw
Its utilizing every aspect
Flesh teeth bones and fur
Its showing respect to Nature
Its how all of us were

As far as canned and trophy hunting
Some might call it sport
These intrepid souls shop at the malls
And drive four by fours
The thought
Is not to hunt the injured
Not to hunt the lame
But to go out for the biggest
And the Strongest yes the same

Its a business it involves so many
Outfitters galore
Gun shops and ammunition
And a whole lot more
Tons of paraphanalia
Safari clubs who will
Publish hit lists and taxidermy services
Until

The cows come home, but seldom do
Hides and bows and lead
Shot thats very toxic
Poisonous that said
They fire their shot and pellets
Into souls some eat
Lead poisoning is rampant
Among the true elite

The poverty with them
Is of their spirit
There is nothing hand to mouth
By their regime
They fill their freezers
From the supermarkets
frozen counters
vagrants clearly who
Disrespect the outdoor
Equilibrium
Compared to the indigenous
Don’t ring true

They talk up conservation
And the local tribes about
How they share a distribution
Its a kind of out
They pay the hunting clubs
To destroy the jungle clan
No more than zoos and petting farms
Managed by the man

Who might have been a farmer
Once
But saw the dosh was there
How he could pull so much wool over hunters
And could share
The dishonest hunting experience
Of the new captivity
Animals in cages and in enclosures
That are free

When the orders are in and the hunters arrive
Thats when the guides emerge
And magically find the very animal
Just there on the verge
And it isnt even frightened
It will not run away
It doesn’t expect to be shot of course
It doesn’t expect to pay

With its life, this isn’t hunting
This is the murder trade
just another wicked racket
Which selfishly has been laid
In front of the new age hunter
With all his fancy gear
Who selects the kill he is after
That is guaranteed to appear

A trophy service available
Its all above board here
Its shamefulness and villainy
Its very very clear
The animals are disregarded
They are not wild at all
They were always captors
Waiting for you to call

There are no finer feelings
No troth no faithfulness
There is no court of honour
No constancy no less
Certainly no uprightness
Nor integrity abroad
Just artfulness and injustice
Which most hunters can afford

Clearly the big five dominate
But giraffes come in and are
Shot down for perhaps ten grand
And some female hunters star
In videos on you tube
With their dying souls
And a variety of antelopes
Become the new age goals

Slaughtering and murdering
Is a profitable game
Turning a blind eye to this and that
Some hearts they do inflame
But where there is money changing hands
And big bucks in the bank
The humble fail to rumble
And When questioned just look blank