A far cry

This is a poem I wrote some time ago when the campaign to ban foxhunting was underway. Although the campaign was successful it isn’t necessarily permanent as another tory government would probably reverse the ban. I often used to see foxes whilst walking my dogs early in the morning or late at night and yes I really did smell them and watch their young play etc. These are impressive wild animals and have more right to be there than we do.

It’s a far cry
A far cry from nature
From humanity
From civilization

I know, ‘cause I smelled the foxes
In the cold morning breeze
‘Cause I watched them grow
‘Cause I saw them play
‘Cause I heard their cry
Far in the distance

And the foxhunters? They
Watched them die

The hunters
Caring, caring for the countryside
Caring for nature, caring with their hatred
Their seething anger, their aching lust
For blood, for fear, for power
And yes, their lust for death

All their fancy jackets
Expensive tweeds and shiny boots
Sitting high and mighty, toasting their success
With blood-red wine on a pedigree horse
A pedigree horse groomed by stable hands
Delivered by Range Rovers
Polished and paid for by the working classes

Charging through the countryside
Like some long lost cavalry
Red coats bright, bugle calls shrill
But these brave toy soldiers
They won’t see battle, they won’t feel fear
Or wonder when their final moment comes
They won’t lie forgotten
In some God-forsaken foreign desert

No! the hunters
Defending their privilege their “Way of life”
Looking after the peasants and paying a pittance
To keep them in their place
To keep up traditions
To keep flaunting their power

To race through your back yard, or mine
Hounds baying for blood
The blood of a fox, or a family pet
Who cares? “Stand aside! we’re coming through”

The hunters days are numbered
But they still can’t see the truth
That there never was a god-given right
To hunt the fox, to ride roughshod over our land
Over the working classes and over our laws
But they still can’t see

Because they never smelled the foxes
In the cold morning breeze
All they smell
Is diesel fumes, polished leather
Warm wine and horses and dogs
The pungent sweat, the sickly-sweet scent of blood
The sharp reek of fear and the stench of death

And all they hear is
Snorting horses, yelping hounds
Tearing flesh, breaking bones
A vixen’s cry and her last breath

I know, ‘cause I smelled the foxes
In the still night air

And the hunters? They
Watched them die

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