These wolves aren't of Farley Mowat,Described as magnificent and proud.
And their street-wizened eyes know it,
As they howl their hopelessness out loud.
Their lonely voice impales the moonlit night,
But their seeming power is a deceitful sound.
Their mangy truth is exposed in the daylight,
As like dirty vermin they scavenge around.
With limp paws they search garbage and debris,
Their fur is matted and their stature small.
And it seems a romantic lie wolves roam free,
When through filthy disgrace they're forced to crawl.
Such is the plight of the fallen wolf and his clan,
Oh what a tragedy for both God and man.