Born Killers (Poetry)

What cold, cold hearts those hunters have —
bluff countrymen who stubbornly insist
such cruel, barbaric ways remain the best
and can find no pity in themselves for bird nor beast.

It takes no courage to let loose their dogs.
They stand and watch a war unfold —
blood, fur and feather spread around and
ritual slaughter’s classed a sport. The children told
                                        it is a fine tradition.

The rabbit, deer and fox all run
                                the pheasant, duck and ptarmigan
hide or fly at sight or smell of man.
Yet we, the near-to-townies, stalk
                                with cameras cocked instead of guns
marvelling at nature — tooth and claw.

While the country squire in leather-patched rough tweed
blasts anything that moves to kingdom come —
a killer born down to his riding boots.
That listing in Debrett’s a haughty clue
he’s a psychopathic killer through and through.