His breath wheezes out into mist dissipating into frosty dawn air,
His eyes beleaguered by constant strain rest upon the object of his hate,
His sinews stiffen as the object of his focus hurry out of their lair.

Inverted are the roles as the weak have massed together,
Shambling along in nebulous mass looking for their chance,
Trampling out of the woodwork in streams that stretch forever,

Their insolence easily whiffed by his nostrils,
Their deranged lunacy carried by a steady wind which ruffles his matted fur,
Their sickly presence an affront to previous kills,

The Wolf knows that he is better
The Wolf knows that his time is now,
The Wolf knows it’s now or never.

With howls that reverberate through the sodden field,
He snarls and stamps at the soft moss crushing beneath his feet,
The shambling sheep pause for a moment as if they will yield,
But they carry on careless for any danger they may meet.

The Wolf is outnumbered but has his wits and pride,
No matter how many outnumber him, his instinct has been unleashed,
He has been dogged, cornered and tortured for so long with nowhere to hide,
And even if the masses swallow him up, he’ll kill and enjoy the feast.

How did this come to pass? This swapping of natural roles,
It comes from the conceit and idiocy of just a single man,
That spreads like wildfire to others of similar frail souls,
Cowards that are only brave in number – they destroy what they can,
The natural order is there for reasons forged in centuries of toils,
But as purile propaganda spreads it makes the weak sap off the strong,
Be like the Wolf who defends against weakness – should you wish to live long.
And that lesson learned for those whose heads are held high can be triumphant in song.