A Sheep in Wolf's Clothing

Written by Anselm Anderson 

Photograph by  Ray Hennessy

Photograph by Ray Hennessy

He sits upon his throne and licks his lips,

He counts the pounds on his fingertips.

He stands up proud and turns around;

He sneers at the baying crowd

The roar of this beast holds no feat,

As he feasts upon his nubile sheep


Red mist descends upon the air

The clench of fists, his icy glare

He bears his teeth, And stamps his feet

A solitary tear rolls down his cheek.


This! The call of the wild?

This is not but the face of a spoilt child.


He hides his modesty with a bandage,

And Spends money on his arrogance;

A wily old fox plays him at his game.

He is now a condemned spectator of disdain

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