When the moon glows bright, and the aconite blooms, when the wind howls and the mines stop their fumes, the werewolf is a'coming.
When the babies in the village cry, and the grass is rustling, when the silver gleams with false malice and the scent of blood is on the air of spring, the werewolf is a'coming.
The werewolf is a'coming, and takes you by surprise. Sneaks into your home, eats up your pies. It tucks the kid into bed, and licks her on the cheek; it takes what you have to offer and then continues to sneak. The werewolf is here.
The werewolf is here, and lays the diseased cattle to rest. It has a feast, and lets digest. The herd survives, to feed the human hives. The werewolf is here.
The werewolf is found, and the screaming starts. Screaming, shouting, a blow, and it smarts. Running, running, running, running, running from the torchlight. Heartbeat, a tribal drum, the wound a river. Running, running, the werewolf is caught.
Tied up, it hurts. Breathing, hurts too. The flames of the fire flicker with desire, the faces of the humans alight with ire, the smoke chokes and soars higher, higher, the netted body thrown in, and let it transpire. "Help, Help!" Howls fall on deaf ears.
The werewolf is dead.
A decade later, all is gone. The village in ruins in the dawn. The cattle died, so the people too. The children exposed, they died two. With the werewolf's help, they could survive, but with the beast slain, help deprive, man is useless.
The werewolf is gone.
