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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