An anti big game, anti hunting with modern weapons, and anti excessive hunting of any kind, poem.
The Brave, Brave Hunter.
The brave hunter hung up the horned head
Of another animal he’d shot dead.
The walls looked as if they had sprouted thorns
In the shapes of antlers and tusks and horns.
Sorrowful glass eyes took in the sad view
Of their fellow trophies, a lifeless zoo,
Felled with modern hunting technology,
They’d none of them had any chance to flee.
Throughout the mansion, on most of the floors
Were spread out the whole hides of predators
With perfect traps for the poor heedless feet
Of guests not alert to the nasty teeth.
Lions and tigers, a cheetah or two
Polar bear, black bear and grizzly too.
Even a zebra had lost its poor life
To be bedside rug for the hunter’s wife.
One early morning just before the dawn,
All of us trying in vain not to yawn,
Our intrepid party drove to a lake
To sit still, well hidden, behind a brake.
Just as the sun was beginning to rise
The birds that flew by got a big surprise,
When the hidden hunter raised up his gun
And shot every bird from under the sun.
Laden with winged and feathered prey
The party drove home to a restful day,
Well earned by bringing home food for the table,
The count of dead birds is stuff for a fable.
The birds were fricasseed, roasted and braised,
And served up in Vol aux Vents highly praised.
The rest of the birds served to fertilize
The roses that won the garden show prize.
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