For To Feed Their Dogs A Thing Of Such Great Beauty Has To Die

The men with guns and dogs on sunday are hunting sambar deer
And the loud cracks of their rifles on the high woodlands I hear
And then the hills are silent and the only living sound
Is the magpie piping on stringybark upon the higher ground.

My thoughts went to the hunted and to myself I did say
I hope the beast they shot at made good it's get away
And did not receive a bullet wound of which it would slowly die
I hope it escaped unscathed and a long life will enjoy.

They only take the hind quarters of the deer back home with them as dog meat
The remainder of the carcass left there for feral pigs and cats to eat
For to feed their dogs a thing of such great beauty has to die
Yet there's plenty dog food in the super store that they can afford to buy.

How come men who do not need to kill to eat will still hunt for to kill?
They go out every sunday with their dogs to the high wood by the hill
and shoot at the wild sambar deer as for their lives they flee
What's sport to them to many is a form of cruelty.

In the high wood the rifles crack and once more all is still
And the butcherbird is piping on the tall gum by the rill
And I hope the creature that they shot at made good it's get away
That they won't take home it's hindquarters for their dogs to eat today.