Dispatches from the wilds of Poetania – “Easter”

Springtime rolls ’round once more
the games begin anew
the hunt is on for young and old
the hunted are past due.

The sins of the father
become sins of the son;
with sticky sweets and little treats
they paint the darkness fun.

And so the shadow spreads,
generations wheel by,
a fine tradition marches on,
its victims borne to die.

Call it what they shall,
and deftly place the blame
at the feet of invented gods
the ugly truths remain.

For what it is in spirit
(unacknowleged in name);
the chocolate chicken holocaust
continues without shame.