He lived at the base of a bottle.
He broke it.
Spilled contents.
Became insane.
Craving.
Baying like a wild wolf.
Wolves are nice.
He wasn't.
There have been tales of lupines kind looking after human cubs.
Displaced and alone.
He wasn't one.
He was a werewolf.
Baying for blood or beer.
The latter more evocative of the demonic drinker.
Left behind.
Just me, thinker.
Then I recalled.
Remembering him.
Hollering for loudly for yet another drink.
Made me think!
(c)Livvi