The Great Destroyer

The spiderís work is grim,
She terrifies the fly,
But takes no joy from him:
íTis her need that he die.

With vice-like crush, or fangs,
The snakeís pursuit is chill,
But only hunger pangs
Motivate him to kill.

The hawk swoops on his prey,
And rips its flesh to shreds,
But this is work, not play:
His tearing off of heads.

Hyenas, when they laugh,
Only appear to mock
The wounds of the giraffe,
The suffering of the íbok.

No creature of this Earth,
Of the sea, or the air,
Seeks pleasure or finds mirth
In any soulís despair.

Where predators must reap
No needless hurt is wrought,
Though Nature holds life cheap,
Only Man kills for sport.

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