In the bushes,
A man sits still,
A hole in his heart,
He yearns to fill.

By causing this pain,
On unsuspecting deer,
Causing their strife,
Sharing his fear.

How he does this,
Is poetic, at least,
Vicious and blood-thirsty,
This man's feast.

His heart is punctured,
So he punctures them,
With a bullet,
Sharp as a gem.

So he sits in bushes,
Before he announces,
His presence among them,
Then . . . he pounces.