The resounding sound, a penetrating round.
Against the whitest snow, the blood so bold.
The bark of a hound, as a corpse hits the ground.
The smoky smell, never growing old, as its legs fold.
The exited yell, for the animal fell.
Kneeling by the body, still and laid in cold.
If this corpse were a man, they could be in Hell.
The thrill of the kill, done for sport and for taste.
The meat is cooked, and gives off a pleasant smell.
But first it must be gutted, so quick, with haste!
For if it is not, the meat will go to waste!
