Once a deer is destined,

To get its pelt skinned,

Does it ever think

That it has sinned?

Flinching as his fur gets trimmed...

He did not feel a thing,

As he put the knife right in,

Under its skin, it pricked.

Twisted as he kept going,

Showed his grin and kept sticking.

Not long before it split

Into two fresh pieces of meat,

Pleased as he raised his fist

Up on air as if there were no mist.

That’s why he couldn’t notice

The arrow until it hit.

His shirt got ripped,

Just below his third rib.

He tripped and tried to grip

His last piece of mind before it slipped.

Idling away with red dripping

From his lip, it was so swift,

He could not see the beheaded,

And that was the last thing he regretted.