| Late in the evening they emerge from the trees
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| In kinships and cells of sixes and threes
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| Following, true to the call they obey
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| Their eyes on the prize, each blade of the way
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| Ages long ago they roamed the King’s wood
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| And though he would hunt them they considered him good
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| The odd royal arrow a small price to pay
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| For keeping the poachers and their freedom at bay
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| The deer on the Parkway graze right to the edge
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| I come round the bend, they’re lifting their heads
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| My headlights their eyes, what will they decide
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| Will the deer on the Parkway let me pass by?
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| Freedom is narrow and its grasses grow thin
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| By the side of the road, the straight that they’re in
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| But median’s lush and it’s luring them out
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| Out onto the Parkway, where I’m heading south
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| Trying to get home just like everyone else
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| Down through the county, neither heaven and hell
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| Where if you don’t kill me, well I won’t kill you
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| That muttering King, I miss him too
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| The deer on the Parkway graze right to the edge
|
| I come round the bend, they’re lifting their heads
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| My headlights their eyes, what will they decide
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| Will the deer on the Parkway let me pass by? |