Twisting turning, trying to dodge the dripping jaws

Of death

With a small heart that pounds with terror, at the smell

Of the killers breath

Swift chopping jaws, that lunge, with their sharp and

Cutting teeth

They have no defence, only speed, to try to keep them

Out of reach

Trying to outrun the hunters, who try to turn them side

To side

With small lungs at bursting point, there is nowhere to

Hide

Twisting and turning, still dodging, trying to reach the

Woods ahead

They must not slow down or falter, else they are surely

Dead

People just stand laughing and cheering, and lots of money

Changes hands

With no pity for this gods creature, whose blood will stain

The land

This is the end, when it comes and when it can run on no

More

Torn apart limb by limb, in a terrible game of tug of

War

What sort of people are these, who organise this very terrible

Thing

What kick do they get out of this, what pleasure does this

Bring

Just to see a harmless animal, run the uneven gauntlet of

Death

Against two swift hunters, who will give them no time to

Rest

So for the hunters, I would suggest a muzzle, now to me this

Is plain

So the hunted who wants to live, could live and so run on

Again

Everything has a right to live, like the blackbird that sings its

Song

To kill to live perhaps is right, but just to kill for fun and gain

Is wrong

BILL ESTALL 2000