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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.