It is my favourite time of year,
The lambing season I hold so dear.
They think their flock is so secure,
Not when I'm around and oh so near.
Cruel and heartless I may be,
Just dark designs found in me.
To Farmer John I am a pest,
One of many like all the rest.
I'm always hungry born sly and cunning,
None escape me when they start running.
Young or old I seek and crave,
A ripped out throat an early grave.
I hunch down low travel without a sound,
No mercy or shame in me is to be found.
My blood is up and close in for the kill,
For the meek shall die and I bear no ill.
I must survive for it's in my instinct,
Nature's killing machine and so distinct.
I'll attack at night even during the day,
For I have this hunger that won't go away.
And Farmer John's farm I hold so dear,
It's tasty livestock never know I'm near.
A duck a goose I so quickly take down,
In their warm blood my fangs do drown.
But then one dark day my hunting ended,
I thought the farm was left undefended.
For Farmer John was lying in wait,
A most tempting trap he did create.
I stealthy entered his open chicken shed,
I then froze looking high above my head.
Saw his noisy boom-stick and Farmer John,
Then all went white and now I'm gone.
Thanks Dominic glad you enjoyed reading it and for your most kind comment. Take care and thanks again.
Wonderful poem about Mr Wolf Shaun with a strong sense of 'nature as red in tooth and claw' coined by Tennyson. I love the way you have personified Mr Wolf so that we readers are able to access his inner most thoughts....intriguing ending. It's definitely a 'travel without a sound' inspired ten from me!
Don't suppose it's worse than a lamb chops. Chopping poem dear son.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Good one. I feel sorry for the bad old wolf.