Read: The Werewolf Epic
Its head below him now, the man then gawks
to see the beats’ full size in soft repose.
The little hut was carpeted, the floor
covered in mangy fur, the wolf’s dreadful
brown coat laid flat. Spoke on the hunter thus:
No grandmother in here resides. Nothing
but this demonic thing of faery tales
do I spy in this shadowed habitat.
But lo, beneath the corner cot, the bed
strangely ajar, the crumpled, crimson cloak,
forlorn and torn, forgotten lies. What now?
He stopped his speech, and listened hard. He heard
a distant weeping voice; muffled, he heard
it still. The hunter’s eyes followed his ears.
Upon the bloated wolf’s stomach he gazed.