The Door Wolf

The Door Wolf. And, what of the waxing Moons Its flood, of relentless tides, that time of scar faced pit dogs, long sharp toothed, their belly grumbling handlers, eager to chalk a death line, on cold ale stained flag stones hard. While in bleakness yard, belly tumbling hags squeeze, last drops out of well gripped ****, for the blind pups bellies, babies must wait, in so many ways they are a benefit, against the door Wolf. And what of pale, deep eyed children Barefoot in waste lands of snow Thin as cotton threads, as are their ragged clothes ! Their belly grumbling quenched, by easy swallowed earth worms, to placate the parasitic worms hidden within. Ahh, all in ! to the avoid the door wolf. And what of the well heeled lace lover, hovering in trinkets of silver, and cups spilling with distain, against the scroungers pain ? With, Parisiene perfume, to muffle the drum Hum drum stench, from a piss trench soaked and brandyied to sleep. Her blinkers finaly, blinked blank. Those waxed, and wained Moons ! Now cobwebbed in long past night skies.