hunting the Rue Saint-Honoré
leaves me no breath
when women brawl for fashion
with warrants of gold
we become lions
every eye looks
taking hunter's aim
in piteous chase
the hares we hunt
are the new, the hot, the exclusive
not the lower marked
cry havoc
for animals heave fewer groans
only wars, revolt and poisons
attend more frightful chaos
one could come to hurt
but fault no villains
that is not our hunting language
we are confederates in chase
seeking the swaggers of success
.
.
A song for this:
Baby You're a Superstar by Mark Roberts, Paul Fletcher, Patrick Sturrock, Emily Taylor & Dan Whitfield
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