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The Hunt

Slowly, oh so slowly,
He stalks his prey.
From before the morning sun,
Well on into the day.
Should he dare to call out,
He would lose the chance of success.
So he walks, oh so quietly,
For he is on a quest.
The crunch of a twig,
Threatens to give him away.
He must act or the prey will flee,
And so, he takes aim.
He loads the gun, his destructive weapon.
He puts the bead on the prey's head.
A shocking sound cuts the air,
And at last, the prey is dead.





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