His eyes run red

As his beating heart.

A thing of myths--

The antlers his art.

Long hind legs

In thicket he’ll hide,

Dignified and

Terrified.

Never to be seen

By any one or thing,

Each point a prize

For hunters to sling.

And that’s why the jack

Remains in the deck.

To lope is freedom,

But exposure is death.

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