Running over rough terrain,
trying hard to please
Gun shots whistle overhead, carried on the breeze.
Hares are lured from tiny crates, voices fill the air,
Mayhem, madness, they call it sport, trying to catch the hare.
The dogs are starved and kept quite lean so they can run much faster,
It only takes a difficult turn and then it can spell disaster.
They break their hocks, or toes or legs and then they get the bullet,
They may reward them with a knife and cut the poor dog's gullet.
The sick, sad men who work their dogs have no regrets or feelings,
They're only interested in the cup, and very dubious dealings.
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