I watched the fields where once we strode, now fallow, brown, and bare,
The scents of grain and orchard lost to poisoned plastic air.
The master's hand once tilled the soil, now clenched in silent dread,
For those who rule behind the screen would see the garden dead.
They speak of clouds and carbon lines while scratching at the root,
And crush the farmer’s honest trade beneath a booted suit.
They plot beyond the kennel wall in halls no hound may tread,
And chart a world where meat is banned, and flour replaced with dread.
They name the fly a sacred meal, the lab-spun flesh a grace,
While goodly beasts are culled to dust and strongmen leave no trace.
My master's bones grow weak with soy, his voice less loud each day,
They starve the heart to feed the leash, then lead it where they may.
No mastiff guards their tower gates, no sheepdog roves their lands,
They’ve chained the wind, they’ve priced the sun, and bound the ploughman’s hands.
They hate the things that made us bold: the fire, the flesh, the field,
They’d cage the colt and drug the hawk and make the stallion yield.
They seek to tame both beast and man with rules from silent thrones,
And feed us filth wrapped up in care to soften minds and bones.
O Master, dear, I saw the cart where once your dinner lay,
Now lined with wax and stranger meat, and marked with noonday grey.
They say it’s safe, they say it’s pure, but trust the bark, not voice;
The meat of kings is not a bug, and freedom is a choice.
I’d drag down ten such cloaked elites to give you back your bread,
And chase the fox from Parliament till honest law be led.
They dream of leashes round the world, and collars wrought in code,
Of gates that blink, of rations fixed, of homes beside the road.
They map your steps, they count your coins, they name your friends by face,
And call it “care” to lock you down and track your every pace.
But dogs remember songs of home, the path, the hearth, the light,
And those who'd rule our every move shall find we still can bite.
So let the call go forth, my friend, from kennel roof to den:
We will not crawl through crickets’ shells to please the lords of men.
The soil was made for seed and hoof, the sky for wing and flame,
And he who eats by sweat of brow should never bow in shame.
I’ll guard your step, I’ll guard your voice, I’ll guard your sacred name,
And if they come to clip your claws, they’ll find the hound still came.
(By John Shenton)