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U3A Writing: The Joys Of Hunting

Vera Sanderson expresses her abhorrence of hunting.

Little foxy waiting there
Must avoid the keeper’s snare.
Off a-hunting she must go,
Fox-trotting through the ice and snow,
No guarantee she’ll find a meal.
Just imagine how you’d feel
Hounded by a pack of dogs,
Chased through fields and moors and bogs
By folk three times the size of you,
Mounted on great big horses too!
Heart beating double all your life
Lungs exploding with the strife.
Finally, run to earth,
All the huntsmen whoop with mirth.
Torn to bits before their eyes,
A lovely gift, a big surprise
For each little girl and boy
To save her brush just for a toy.
Christened with her blood no less;
What a bloody awful mess.
Or snared, poisoned, badly shot
By some cack-handed, clumsy clot.
Wait till dark to crawl away
And slowly die in agony,
With cubs in some forgotten lair.
Her crime was living. Was that fair?
Bewildered creatures scatter, fly or run;
Exhausted, they surrender to the baying hounds or gun.
Hunters will rape the countryside until
It’s barren and there is nothing left to kill.


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