Poem by Roberto Fishman.

Seat reclined, eyes dead on the scope

out there running so slow, young injured antelope

finding its way in the claws of my corporate enviornment

nestling on its urge of an early retirement

I sit there allowing for it to draw near

masking my plan, numbing its fear

but on the inside i notice something thats quite uncertain

almost like all-to-soon closing of my shows curtain

I realize once more that my victim has decieved

and inside my mind the message recieved

poor young antelope was not the meal for me

poor young antelope was my subconcious reflecting me

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