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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