Huntsman and the poacher
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The Huntsman spies the Poacher's
tracks in snow on a crisp winter's day
A sack of fresh conies hanging up
in the oak tree, the cold breeze sways
Tobacco pouch, his carved pipe and his coat clearly shows his mark
And the huntsman wipes his aged brow
so the deadly game can now start again
Lying across a hollowed stump, so his rifle aim is assured
The deer in the clearing has not seen him and yet it hesitates
One on one, man and prey bask in the silence of final moments
And then he'll be back on the road to his home and his wife
At the end of the day.
At the end of the day.
At the end of the day.
It will be over
Ahead in his spyglass,
the huntsman views his foe in this frozen moment
Fixes his sights on the hollow and fires with drawn breath
One on one, the law and the breaker, his justice is swift.
The figure lying there on the ground in the red of crushed berries
At the end of the day.
At the end of the day.
At the end of the day.
It will be over
It will be over