Lyrics and melody ©1994 by Catherine Faber
Covered in dirt and mud, aching and spitting blood,
Cursing, you stir to rise and groan.
Muffled in yet-to-come mutters a battle drum
Werewolves don't usually walk alone.
Think on the battle-cost; this time the wolf has lost
Beaten and broken and blind.
Better beware, my lord; better prepare, my lord;
I was the least of my kind.
Prying my switchblade cold out of my fingers' hold,
Pause to take stock, reflect, and rue.
Look on the damage done here by a single one;
What do you think a full pack will do?
Careless I came by chance, joining in battle's dance
Slain in a fight I could not win.
Far-off a wolf pack hears; heads turn, with pricking ears.
Thought you, my lord, that I had no kin?
