Even a man who is pure in heart,
and says his prayers by night.
May become a wolf,
when the wolfbane is in bloom,
And the autumn moon is bright.
Baila the gypsy new the poem well,
the truth is he had been through hell.
The night the balalaikas played,
his journey home had been delayed,
and walking through the moonlit fog,
he heard a noise a growling dog?
As he quickened up his pace,
He met the monster face to face.
A face that is, covered in hair,
It gave poor Baila quite a scare.
It bared it’s fangs and growled again,
and Baila shot off down the lane.
The werewolf was in close pursuit,
caught him up, claws ripped his suit.
It’s fangs sunk deep into his chest,
tearing off his blood soaked vest.
His mother helped him go inside,
his gaping wounds were hard to hide.
She looked at him quite in despair,
said was it a wolf you met out there..
Then Baila it’s is a day you’ll rue,
now you will be a werewolf too.
When later on one night in june,
where wolf bane grows under the moon.
Baila will be waiting there ,
withyellow fangs and matted hair.
And when the balalaikas play,
Get off home the quickest way.