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The Doh-Doh And The Doe's

Updated on March 15, 2011


The Doh-doh And The Does.



Six deer cross my path, on a dark country lane,

January's juggernauts jolting my senses.

Each completely ignorant of the 240 horse power

held in check by my left foot.

Numbed by two quarts of Crown Royal,

My five toes still manage to prevent

a vehicular vennison splash.

Twelve wide brown eyes stare frozen at me

as rubber treads scream and grip concrete.

Thankfully I missed them.

Then they scattered like buckshot from a

weapon unwittingly discharged.

I was a god visiting thier fragile world in a chariot of steel.

Thier execution was pardoned by fate,

in a twisted version of Robert Frost

pausing in the snowy woods.

My shakey hands gripped the steering wheel,

grateful for the handful of brain cells

left uninebriated by my daily addiction.

I drive on through swirls of white,

thumping over two dead skunks and a dead possum,

who had met other gods less adept at commas

while trampling nature into asphalt.


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