The wolf remembers being big and bad.
Down comes the rain on trees penned in a park.
Dreaming of little children makes him sad.
So tasty, toothsome, in the woodsy dark,
The crunch of bones, the fellowship a pack
Affords: who, fed now from a keeper's cart,
Savors a salted girl, the perfect snack,
Some innard put aside, a treasured part?
Do not, thinks wolf, settle for metaphor,
The skirtchaser, the fairy's tale, the lone
Arranger who waits snidely at the door.
That kingdom lets a goose sit on its throne.
No, to be wolf is wolfkind's greatest good,
Here where the world is run by Riding Hood.
1 comment:
Nice.. :)
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