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 
And there's also this: