instinctive as the sun,
when the moon begins to rise,
so does my instinct tell me,
"Hide! My master, Hide!"
for men they come with guns,
in holiness they hunt;
be they giant or a runt,
they kill to out the brunt.
and now the end is near;
tell me: where to hide?
can they find me, smell my fear?
would they kill a man untried?
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