Wolves Ate My Master of Wolves
The master of my wolves was so trusty
and so very good at his job,
without him my pack, unmentored,
would have run wild, but they never did,
my packmaster had them well in hand.
I don’t know where they are now,
my canines that I loved so much,
they disappeared when he died
in the jaws of less civilised wolves,
not a well behaved unit like mine.
Mine might have left in disgust, not fear,
at that shamelessly savage new lot.
A pack that I’ve never seen
left only enough of my wolfmaster
that I knew that they were his remains,
but worse than his untidy remains
they left a note, callous, gloating.
‘Haha – We Ate Your Master Of Wolves –
Sincerely – The Wolves.’
I worry that they’ll huff and puff
and pick my front door lock
and consign me to the same fate
as my trusty master of canines,
I hear them at night, sometimes near.
I knew him well enough to know
that he was an excellent pack leader
and he was definitely the master
of my dearly loved wolves,
but I can’t account for those wolves.
8th November 2018
Copyright © Lawrence Sharp | Year Posted 2018
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