Thursday, September 24, 2015

EXPORTING KILLERS - THE PROUD YANKS


Dear Animal Lovers,
Here's my take on the Bloody
Americans who come killing 
in Africa for fun.

I accept that that my poem is
a bit dated but the slaughter
hasn't changed, if anything
it has got a lot worse. 


A land of dollars and of stately homes,
Of millionaires and towering domes,
That is America – the USA
A proud Yank would say.
His ancestors took the plains
At the price of bison stains on a hand
Which devastated all his land,
And little knew it bred
A flabby substitute instead,
Who would be, as their fathers were
Hunters of beasts and the fur
With which to adorn the walls
Of their massive empty halls.
But the only thing their fathers left alone
Was the common sight of bleached bone.
IT'S HARD TO THINK OF ANYTHING MUCH SICKER THAN THIS
Where hunters were there can be no more,
So these Yanks depart for a farther shore
To blast and cripple at their leisure
The very heart of our pleasure.
DONALD TRUMP'S LITTLE DARLINGS DON (left) AND
ERIC ON A KILLING SPREE IN AFRICA. 
For we are the land of sunny smiles
Where game herds stretch for miles
On our sea of thorn specked earth
And not as decorations for the hearth.
THE KILLER BROTHERS AGAIN
There are a meagre few
Who display their expertise for all to view
In a best selling book
Or weekly editions of the Look.
But these are exceptions to the rule
Which says the novice must be cruel
For how can a man who ne’er did start
Hit his quarry through the heart.
NOT TO BE OUTDONE TEXAS CHAIR LEADER KENDAL JONES
SHOWED SHE COULD KILL AS WELL AS ANY MAN
He is a millionaire, yet a little runt
Who comes to Africa big game to hunt,
So that he may decorate his house
With the trophies of a mouse.
On landing at the airport he is met
By a safari firm that nurses him like a pet.
All the work is done
He scarce needst hold the gun.
NOT EASY TO MISS - A SITTING HIPPO
He has guns galore
But knows not what they’re for.
But again it matters not
Whether he before has shot
For the hunter tells him again,
And again, just when
And where to shoot the beast,
And when the heart has ceased,
For let it not be said,
A    A lion rose from the dead
And on a millionaire was fed,
As wealthy customers are a rareish kind,
Although they’re there they’re hard to find.
NOTHING LIKE BRINGING THE KIDS UP TO BE KILLERS FROM AN
EARLY AGE
If perchance his aim is true
He numbers amongst the few,
It matters not
If when aiming at the shoulder
His bullet strays to a boulder
And from there it flies to impale
Another animal in the tail.
For the wound is slight
And the antelope might
Run for a hundred miles or more,
And so with that in store
He’ll let that one go
And get the boy to show
Him where the others are.
A BLOODY GOOD JUMBO IS SOMETHING TO SMILE ABOUT
I hope the wounded won’t run far
For in spite of a luxury motor fleet
To spare his tiny limbs and feet
It’s easier to shoot or wound them there
Than chase the wounded round the sphere.
EVEN THE SMALLER ANIMALS ARE NOT SAFE FROM THIS KILL
FOR FUN BUSINESS
His trophies he can afford
To have mounted by Roland Ward.
And yet of these how many did he kill?
That secret’s paid for like the bill.
So back to America – the USA,
A proud Yank would say.
Having shot a lion
He now can shoot a line.

Regards,
Jon 
P.S.  See also Zoo hunting
and: American Dream - turning innocents into killers 

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