In my book I am calling it

the inglorious twelfth of course

shooting grouse  with shot guns

that toxic lead they force
out on the purple Heather

a ceaseless avariciousness

a moral insensibility

murdering these pretty birds

with lead shot  that unconsciously

tears into the spirit and rips into the streams
suffering the malice  those desolate  dreams

our babies prostrate with such misery

it is going to be April 29 they say

the end game tragically

the quarry will be shot away

on steel and bismuth why

grouse and

deer and Pheasant

apparently have   to die