Please every one Copy and Paste this poem.
Or better yet teach it to the children.
This poem must not die, and neither must the wildlife.
The traps must die.
THE FATE OF FUR FOLK
Early while the East is Pale
The trapper is out on his frozen trail
Cruel traps are on his back
To snare the lives of the woodland track
Day by Day he links the chain
Of these grim machines of pain
In these merciless iron jaws
little furfolk die because
Man must high on fortune ride
Women have an hour of pride
Ladies do you think of this
Out where tempests howl and hiss
Where the folks of the Hill and Cave
Scream with no one these to save
Where the creatures of the wood
Robbed of joy and motherhood?
Ladies did you ever see
An otter knawing to get free?
Knawing what? His flattened leg
For he has no friend to beg
Do at nightwhen you kneel
See them in their traps of steel?
Do you see the creatures die
While the bleeding hours go by?
Do you see that tortured shape
Knawing his leff off to escape?
Do you see the creatures die.
While the bleeding hours go by
Do you hear their dying cries
While the crows, pick out their eyes?
Ladies are the furs you wear
Worth the Hell of there despair?
