The Hunter.

There's something about the chase.
The cold sweat on your brow.
Bold breath on your bow.
Body poised yet still.

That moment you feel your heart race.
Your living in the here and now.
And yet someway, somehow.
Your not living for the kill.

Your living for that all consuming embrace.
For the cold breath that turns to fire.
The heart torrent with desire.
For the supple vicious thrill.

Now we just substitute it with other races.
Competing salaries, athletics, dating.
Bigger targets, contests, daunting,
Testing our will.

Cave men in Armani suits instead of painted faces.
Cash instead of tooth bone souvenirs.
Blackberry's instead of spears.
Excess is our fill.

The only change to it's face is grace.
Society is the hierarchy.
Systematic anarchy.
No blood spilled.

Civilization the killing floor, rat race.
Call it what you will.
But we still.
Live for the kill.