What became of extras,
Always dressed in grey;
One or two make limelight,
Did many die afraid?

The fray is also velveteen
On antlers in stag-youth;
They rub it on the oaken trunks,
It’s like an aching tooth.

No one knows the minds of deer
Despite the rhymes of men;
Wherever fall the extras then
It’s not for me to deign.

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