Well, it must take such guts
To shoot a baby cub that’s in a cage
Using its existence as nothing but a trophy
The sheer thought of it brings both
Tears of sadness and a burning rage.
For kings of the bungle
That stuff their heads without care
Who never think about morals
Nor the affects that has now deadened
The brightness of their souls flare.
So allow these noble creatures to roam freely
Where the merciless breeding farms once stood
Thus rebuilding our spiritual connection with animals
And finally putting the lid on
This canned hunting for good.
© Daniel North
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