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No Room at the Inn
by Curtis Johnson

The drunken the bitter, they
are the hunters who become
such only when the easy kill
comes to sight

Their helpless prey they lay,
by the road side, struck down
by these kamikazes of the
night

Taught me, the years, to value
my tears. For them I bleed, for
Them I cry

Who of us cares for the deer
and where do the deer go to
die?

With all our science there
must a way to honor what
is God given space

This must become so if
humanity is to finally prove
worthy of grace

Such a noble quadruped,
with its' horned crown
brow

A pity this gentlest of
forest dwellers meets with
such ill fated foul

In the push for civilization
shouldn't we ask ourselves,
why?

Who of cares for the deer
and where do the deer go
to die?




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Document last modified on: 12/01/1997

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