Poems

The Wolves

I hear the wolves
nice and snug in their country homes
staring gluttonously at their televisions
counting bodies out loud
howling at the top of their lungs
for hours on end
I see the wolves
without their sheep's clothing
stuff their faces with fresh game
elect their token Judas by show of hands
drink the blood of a village
that is still young, a little fruity
the blood of a land strewn with mass graves
for hours on end
I hear the wolves
switch the lights off at midnight
and lawfully rape their wives
 

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