Mr Wolf

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.