Pheasants

Each toff
Is off
Their rocker
Killing birds for sport
Murdering in cold blood
Without a single thought
They really do not get a chance
Its a firing range thats all
It helps release frustration
But for me it does appal

Predation
Its relation and salvation
For the wild
Ones who were created
And they too are defiled
So we see a continuance
Of the age old sport of kings
Who are harried by the beaters
And then blown out of their wings