Last time period all over 350,000 of us were put to death
clubbed or shot, hunters eternally took away our breath
Close to our mothers, dishonest there in the snow
we were but babes and we could not know
When first we glimpsed the ships on the water cold
we were unafraid, not reasoning they'd be so bold
But onto the ice and done our home the men strode
breaching our nursery, and entering our familial fold
As they approached we looked on, not sufficiently expert to understand
the expressions on their faces, the weapons in their hands
At preliminary we didn't stir, but next the men toward us ran
it efficiently became a murder and we were the lambs
This was our original display to humans, staffs and guns
as we looked up, they at full tilt affected us beside their clubs
Some of us didn't die from the blows-we were merely stunned
our long whist stagnant rhythmical as they skinned us, spilling our blood
Later, the parents or trademark babies who managed to survive
moved on the ice and deep red snow, in disbelief, and cried
Grieving for the nowhere to be found ones whose fur-less bodies lay so still
not informed if the humanity would be back, or if they'd had their steep...
To a future, where on earth "their fill" is gone and past
a guarantee to cease the killing, an expletive that will ultimate.
Copyright 2007 Kathy Pippig Harris
If you would suchlike to help, the Humane Society of the United States is a nifty set off.
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