Come the late autumn months, you’ll find them there,
by Amy Gerrard
A stream of Range Rovers, Barbour Jackets, immaculate
Swept back hair. With shooting sticks and green wellies,
They cheer the undesirable sight, as defiant these fools
Continually break the law, and not one copper in sight,
It’s so not right.
Pink jacketed figures on horse back cheer, leaping fences
Against background horns, it’s all so sick it makes me leer,
As I drive past and sound my horn in protest, but this
Sport goes on and on, butchery as a pastime, it should
Have long gone.
A swirling mass of vicious teeth, tear into a lone fox,
Now trampled underneath both paws and horse hooves
I turn away as the mad carnage fuels the mass, as in
Blood lust they roar, a victory for them and failure
for the law.
And what of those people that love to take part?
Bryan Ferry’s son Otis – a prat from the start.
Invading the House of Commons how cleaver
Your are. In the eyes of the ordinary public,
Unlike your dad, you’re not a star.
I hate this sport; this sadistic lust
I hate what it stands for; to kill
And all for what? What is the point?
So that they can ‘blood’ their children
Like some ritualized anoint.
Why oh why! What is the point!
Why oh Why! What is the point!