Cut the Chase

Hunting is to provide food
Not a formal social gathering

To provide pleasure through torture
Huntsmen dress in pristine manner
To foreshadow carnal deeds
Murder on their minds, generals on parade

Their strategy is numbers
A dozen men, a dozen horses
All bent to their will
Blood thirsty and purebred hounds, bred to bring some hell!

Fox destined for agony, lest it can escape
Scent is gathered, horns they sound
Salivating jaws agape!

Pursued knows it can out-fox the chaser
But strength in numbers whittles down all wits with time

Heart rate ever increasing, fear levels always rising
Hope rapidly diminishing, physically, mentally, beaten
Squabble over blood soaked body, trophy gasps for air
Wish for quick death not granted, dying in despair

Stop!

Cut the chase
Stop the cruel
Successful hunt?
Torture is fucked



Credits
Writer(s): Grandfather Nebulous
Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com

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