The slow decay in a dragon's lair,
  lichen lycanthropes snuggle, sleeping,
  against a massive mound of mushroom.
Spore-shackles lie, a layer
  bridging between the rot and denizens
  and the hoard of items
  lost, left by a long-gone species.
A hungry dog arrives.
Snags a bag, *****, writhing, but hope --

  "No. No. No. Our hope, our hope.
     Our pride, our hope. No."

The dog flees, empty-stomach.