How sweet the joy of purposed death,
Of deliberate taking aim at life,
The rasping of the final breath,
The kill with gun, or spear, or knife.
The beast brought down with mighty thud,
The gasp of air released,
The glorious spillage of fresh warm blood,
The smell of prey deceased.
What bleeding heart would seek to take,
This harmless joy from thee?
What fool cries tears for pitys sake,
For game that failed to flee?
I, for one, will cry those tears,
Though I, perhaps, alone,
And pray the day of peace soon nears,
And ends that ‘final moan’.