Dank smells of rotted earth gather about
To assail those pale sensibilities and tastes
Which dare to attempt entry to the lair
Of the Wolf, dense vegetation and heavy
Tree canopy cover closes in, shadowy and crowding.
The smells of putrid roots and decomposing leaves
Are more than some can withstand, confusing
For their green and brown death stench overpowering;
This is a place for savages, slave to naught but
Time, society’s ravages forever ignored.
Long has the Wolf’s lair dreamed after it’s dead leader,
His stone bunkers, so dank, erected amidst flitting
Wolfen eye fireflies which dance betwixt marsh gas bubbles
Bursting with stored up evil foetor, unleashed
Into the sluggishly swirling mists, enmeshing everything.