hexed wind
I admit,
I wasn’t raised up in the woods
If you put the gun cocked in my hand
I might be able to shoot it
But I’d surely miss,
And if I were to hit the deer,
in a way that was final, merciful
I doubt I could drag it back to my house, I'm not strong enough,
Let alone cut it’s pelt into a coat, I don’t own scissors sharp enough,
And I wouldn’t be able to cook it, I don't have a pot big enough,
I wouldn’t even eat the meat, I hate venison
Nor would I dare try to stuff it,
Even if I learned the recipe to stitch it to a form or bred beetles to bite the bones clean,
I still wouldn’t know what to do with the beetles afterwards.
If somehow I could be raised again to have the stomach,
I could sample the conquest like liquor
Find that a buck is too strong and maybe a doe too sweet
But I still won’t like the taste enough to swallow
I hate venison and I’m too respectful to waste
I’d probably just leave her laying where I shot her
Ill ask the maggots how their meal was after
dark lotus