Eulogies from every walk of common folklife

have been told of things like I,

creatures of scaly skin, thinning grey eyes,

who feed on prey, stomachs grumble, unsatisfied

We appear as simple within our prey's eyes.

A mere black suit with a straight, crisp,

white tie along with a black polar cap pulled

low down over our right eyes.

Possibly to hide the tiny delinquent ravaging and

thrusting in our hearts. Just waiting to extort

our weak-willed and minded

prey's artless designs,

drawn to our alluring persona like

a white spotted moth trying to find

a speck of light at the end of

a stomach lining tunnel.

We're legends hidden in plain sight brought about

by the sheep who follow endless lies.

The world will never run out of sheep,

so we creatures, will never, run out of feed.