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Up before dawn racing the sun to hope. Off the guiding path, where the shepherd will approach. Down in the dirt but no time for pain. Reach for desire or struggle On the lonesome journey, all are made humble;
Everyday is trying to survive the Hunt What you get is what you may or may not have earned But be cautious, use it wise, cause you'll never know when tables turned
With want I watch the hunter and his dear. His delight; unfaltering, does not cease. A mere goodbye; you help me in my fleece- Out to the woods, to the cold morning’s air.
It's that time of year again, when the duck migration does begin. Shotguns, waders, and shells, ready to hunt the flooded rice fields. Opening morning sunrise, signals the ducks early surprise.
All signs read, great hunting ahead. The rut was beginning, in the woods I was hunting. The deer were a moving, they need not be hiding. Acorns were a dropping, many a deer came running.
You've been to a hundred humbling homes
Out into the woods I walk I dont even dare to talk As I hear the sound of a duck I look around only to see a nice eight-point buck And as I feel the old worn bark of an oak
Here I sit in the dark, alone and cold. The rain and wind, pounding the blind, don’t stop. The blind sways and creeks, acting as if old. The bait sits waiting, the cream of the crop.
We’ve seen death. We’ve experienced what the clueless would call “murder”. We’ve felt every emotion possible After that trigger was pulled, Or that arrow was released. The others, they don’t understand,
Forfeit the winter Forfeit the snow Forefit the bitter and the cold Build your houses Where foliage spontaneously grows Where winds of wild ambition blow
Like a heat with air puffedFinished hunting can lay down my bowTo many birds,Daddy.
His yellow eyes stare at me knowingly He bares his fangs at me in a smile Taunting me Running ever so quickly, ever so quietly His silver-gray fur overshadowed by the trees Answering the call for the hunt
Dashing left, dashing right. Through the trees, through the night. The sound is near, the woods are hushed. Barks ring out, flowers crushed. Sounds of the noble hunt flow and as the sounds of the dog grow
Her eyes are sweet with the gentle glaze of death. Roseate lips of golden ice and petite hands clasped tight. Who is she praying to, in the soft morning light?
Hopes and dreams crash like a meteor falling The outcome is inevitable, so why are you stalling? You knew what would happen; who would win How could anyone love you? You’ve committed too many a sin.