Eyes of a wolf, yellow and lineage of the forest,
Count Olaf eyebrows, white mischievous swoops,
he lays out like a swimming otter, kicks like a black bull.
He’s already six but we call him baby squatch,
Elvis, Franzipan, this arm-filling mouser,
connoisseur of fine earthy smells. He’s a heart leach;
let me be frank. He will stand on your chest
and look down into your lies. Life was so tough
on the streets of LA; he’s too proud to ask for much.
So you end up turning, inside and out, everything you have.