VERMIN

A broken body, matted red,

tossed in the air by wailing hounds.

The quick, brown fox is spinning, dead,

amid the banshee bugle sounds.

The inane braying still abounds

when port is drunk and fables spill,

about the right of man to kill

an animal who, turning back,

stood proud and noble on the hill

and faced the crimson vermin pack.

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