A cautionary tale for Hunters

Before you read this poem,

Perhaps give pause and wait,

For one of its protagonists,

Will meet a grisly fate.

Within the steamy jungles,

Of the land of Brandlebee,

There lives a mythic creature,

Called the Spondaloolalee,

Now these creatures mate for life,

Exactly why, it’s hazy,

Perhaps it really is true love,

Perhaps they are just lazy,

Now the Spondaloolalee,

Is vibrant pink (with glitter),

And every 27 years,

It has its only litter,

They really are quite rare you see,

And live in twelve strong packs,

They poop out purple poos,

After eating purple snacks.

One day into the jungle deep,

A hunter came to see,

If he could bag one for himself,

And get a nice trophy.

He hunted high and hunted low,

He sweated more and more,

He scanned the highest treetops,

He roamed the jungle floor,

But the Spondaloolalee,

So vibrant pink (with glitter),

Is also quite invisible,

And a good deal fitter,

Than any Hunter at their best,

And so they played a game,

And when Hunter scoured the treetops,

Then they did the same,

When he searched to find their tracks,

For all that he was worth,

The Spondaloolalee just laughed,

And rolled about with mirth,

But one day, and just by chance,

A Spondaloolasprog,

Not yet all invisible,

Was spotted near a bog,

The Hunter scarce believed his eyes,

He wiped away the sweat,

Of all the trophies that I’ve bagged,

You’ll be the best one yet.

Quietly and cautiously,

He readied his big gun,

Unaware that he’d been seen,

By the sproglets Mum.

Finger on the trigger,

He got it in his sights,

A creature pink (with glitter),

And one that claws and bites!

And as his finger tightened,

And he readied for the shot,

Something unseen grabbed him,

And tied him in a knot!.

Whilst Spondaloola-sprog,

Obliviously romped,

His Mum (and Dad), so vibrant pink,

Upon the Hunter, stomped,

They stretched him into strangest shapes,

They nibbled on his hands,

They pulled out his intestines,

Well, they make great rubber bands.

His kneecaps made great finger bowls,

They drew upon his skin,

Then they took it off him,

And they stretched it nice and thin.

They put together juicy bits,

Some tongue, some ear, some thigh,

And in some fine puff pastry,

They baked him in a pie.

Now you may think of this as cruel,

But hunting is not clever,

Be it done on sunny days,

Or in inclement weather,

So people, leave your guns at home,

You have no business killing,

For sport, or entertainment,

You should only be willing,

To shoot them through your camera lens,

A memory to take,

Not end up like our Hunter here,

In a Spondalooli-bake!

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