Macavity's a mystery cat,
He'd better stay indoors,
Australia's donning its slouch hat,
The cull's a righteous cause.
He's got some famous allies though,
Tree-huggers from afar,
That veggie Moz, screen star Bardot,
Are spoiling for a spar.
But what, know they, of Straya's cats,
From towers made of gold?
The horrifying killing stats,
Should make them far less bold.
To talk of mercy for the brutes,
Displaced in foreign lands.
No justice for the bandicoots,
Pig-foot, and other brands.
No more big-eared hopping mice,
The lesser bilby too,
Those furry foreign bastards slice,
Poor long-nosed potoroo.
A cull's been called and in the sights,
Are toms, queens and kittens.
And after all their killing plights,
Shouldn't they be mittens?
I'm talking here with tongue in cheek,
It's really just a thought,
We consume birds from tail to beak,
One shouldn't get distraught.
We'd kill two birds with just one stone,
Oh dear, a proverb wrong,
But maybe we should arm and hone,
An industry along.
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Culling In The Name Of (poem)
PoetryA poem on the recent announcement of the planned culling of 2 million feral cats in Australia, and the responses from Morrissey & Bridget Bardot.
