Tailored suit, Turkish smokes in a fancy silver case
Gold buttons, collar straight, black tie neatly pressed in place.
Who is he? Well, you must make a deal to learn.
Give me two cents for my trouble,
And a cigarette to burn.

A man made up of shadows and illusions black and gray;
He's a quaint manifestation of the muse you've thrown away.
All of your escaped emotions,
All your unmitigated strife,
Packaged up in flesh and bone and given dusky life.

He breaks apart unfinished thoughts without regard to you,
And uses them to flesh out patchwork dreams of rosy hue.
But happy dreams are wrought of love,
And though Wolf vainly tries,
Internal nightmares oft bleed through and mar his cheerful lies.

He takes your lost sincerities and shapes them up like clay,
Gives them form and simple purpose,
In a rhythmic, pleasing way.

The Wolf is but a poet, his goal you mustn't misconstrue
For he will tear apart your soul
And smiling, give it back to you.