And here we see now,
People in mourning,
During the wake of a wolf.
Blood and destruction,
Terror and fear,
Speeding by mouth and by hoof.

“Retaliation!”
“Retaliation!”
Vengeance is their cry.
“Abomination!”
“Abomination!”
That’s all she is in their eye.

The hunt is on,
The chase begins,
They seek to exact their own sins.

Who could cry in the wake of a wolf?
Who could mourn the poor beast?
Who could cry in the wake of the wrathful
None could love in the least?

The traps are laid out,
The hunters are stationed,
And more people die at their hands.
Stayed until starving,
Missiles pierce as they should,
While their quarry keeps stalking the lands.

Finding a hut,
They set it alight,
And out runs that vile being.
One perfect shot,
Stockaded in town,
They can’t believe what they’re seeing.

The hunt is over,
The chase is done,
Yet they have only just begun.

Who could cry in the wake of a wolf?
Who could mourn the poor beast?
Who could cry in the wake of a horror
None could love in the least?

A woman screams out,
Then her husband,
And it’s no longer a silent night.
Flames rise up,
Destruction returns,
But now there’s no one to fight.

The creature still bound,
No others in sight,
These thoughts frighten the mind.
Where is the target?
Who should be dead?
Surely it’s one of her kind.

The hunt was a waste,
The chase was to long,
The bitch must have sung her song.

Who could cry in the wake of a wolf?
Who could mourn the poor beast?
Who could cry in the wake of a devil
None could love in the least?

The stocks are broken.
Once again running free,
She howls her sadistic glee.

Quick to the fires,
Quick past the flames,
She dashes back out,
Hauling several young dames.

They see her tender,
They see her care,
But this they won’t ever share.

She tears at the darkness,
She rips and she bites.
She draws out the blood
Of several white knights.

Cloaked in the blackest,
They returned for late tithes
In the form of many young lives.

She defended the town,
Yet no one will say.
The truth will be buried
And thought a lie someday.

She took the credit,
And she will once more,
As a marksman lets one soar.

She falls to the ground,
With only shuddering breaths.
For her kin this is
The next to last of their deaths.

Who would cry in the wake of a wolf?
Who would mourn the poor beast?
Who would cry for one so forgiving
That none would love in the least?