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.

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 a noisy boom-stick and Farmer John,
Then all went white and now I'm gone.