In gory throes, I ’xcoriate the nose.
I aim to maim; raison d’être ain’t tame.
At night, I’ve pelt and a tail;
bitten women wail.
Hair on my skin from head to shin—
lobo-man, no [a]lo[pecia]!

And since my arm was a harmer’s buffet,
it’s made me lupine, although just till day.
If in the woods you hear someone scream,
I’m afraid that it’s not a bad dream
I’ve just brought another victim down,
and the fear is running very deep.

Makes me lupine just till day;
sun appears and I go away.
Taking life, that is my grail.
I careen through a sylvan dell.


A man in business clothes
to the office goes.
When darkness grows, he’s one of those:
lobo-man, loathed so!

Diurnally the guy isn’t that bad,
but at night he changes more than a tad.
He no longer is that smiling guy—
if you encounter him you’ll die.
He’s just brought another victim down,
and the fear is running very deep.


Make me lupine just till day;
dawn comes near and I go away.
Taking life down in a swale,
I careen through a sylvan dell.

You’ve no prayer when I’m ranging,
hissing while I’m raging.

Make me lupine just till day;
dogs comes near, and their owners say:
“Take his life and do not fail!”
I part, reamed by a silver shell.