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The grass of the backyard Is a wild jungle, The clover a dense thicket A golden hunter, She tramps through the green Eyes bright,
His hands are calloused and torn, browned by the sun as always but now they are stained red with blood Silent, he grips the butt of his rifle with one hand and a dirty cloth with the other
The hunter's arrow Sleek and swift Pointed straight at my foot What he was aiming for Could not fly The clouds were not his friends Focused too much on the wormy muddle
test me i dare you: because one day i will have had enough and you will realize that though i may be a freak i am a freak to be reckoned with so remember that when you go to push me down
A sharp noise in the air No people to stare The cold air bites my skin I wish I could be free It’s a never-ending hunt and I am the hunted
Wolves grace along in packs, the beauty of their fur ruffle in the wind, snow, and sun rays. All so bright, the wolf touches
There is a crossroads up ahead.
Controlled The president of stealth You come upon our domain Invisible: ghost; roaming within shadows
The scorching Serengeti heat casts a spotlight Shining on a glorious creature whose life is finite He enters the land of the stories untold But he is the hunter whose task is so bold
Alone and afraid and Against all Odds we attested to Our awful phobias.
The Hunter’s Dilemma The hunter is a proud person Proud of where he comes from Proud of what he does And proud of what he has done.