Of Wolves And Eggs

Enough have I had of not posting....the following scrap was the product of extreme boredom in Human Rights class last year, inspired by the memory of a photograph of Bill Nighy in a top hat, tux and wolf's feet, sitting on a giant golden egg. It's a bit wobbly in parts but as long as inspiration refuses to strike, stuck we are.

The Wolf, the Shutterbug and the Giant Egg.

This is the tale of how a villain
Who, of his kind, was one in a million
Was persuaded to wear a suit
And sit on an egg for a photoshoot.

In a country distant, with boundaries big
Lived the wolf who terrorised the Three Little Pigs.
‘Twas a daylong job, and he often got bored
So, when this happened, he lay down and snored.

Once in a while, he would get fed up
And stalk around, snarling, “Insolent pups!”
(Pigs, actually)- “I’m sick of this talk!
All I’m doing is eating chalk!”

“Where will they find a wolf of my talents?
The little pigs’ lives now hang in the balance.
But not for much longer, if I have my way
I’ll blow that house of theirs down some day.”

“I’m a star, I am,” Wolfie growled
Then threw back his head and had a good howl
“I deserve to be immortalised!”
(By a shutterbug with a tender hide)

And just at that moment, a carriage arrived
(A collision with this, Wolfie barely survived)
And out of it, with a face like a pug
Jumped the wished-for Shutterbug.

Wolfie jumped, and Wolfie stared
His hackles rose, his teeth were bared
But he thought- can this be the goods
Turning up now in my neck of the woods?

This Shutterbug walked up to Wolfie and asked
If Wolfie would agree to be masked
And, suited and booted, with an egg for a perch,
Shot as ‘Wolfie the Great’ under the birch.

The suit was human, and Wolfie itched
To take it off, and have a twitch-
“Careful!” said Shutterbug, “Our morals are loose.
We stole that egg from Mother Goose.”

So Wolfie’s itchy feet went unscratched
For itchiness too, they went unmatched
The egg was the size of a telephone booth
He kept slipping off, thinking, “Eggs, forsooth!”

The Shutterbug kept saying, “Oh please! One more!
That’ll be it, then we go home and snore.”
Wolfie was bugged; he was thoroughly tired
Of everything this Shutterbug was, and hired.
He wanted to go back to his comfy digs
And keep terrorising the three little pigs.

(Plus, he preferred his wooden beer keg
To the smooth surface of the stupid cold egg)

His itch kept itching, and he had to stay still
So Shutterbug could profile his snout on the hill
He finally lost it, and with great pomp
Raised his right foot, brought it down and stomped.

With the stomp of his foot, the eggshell broke
And Wolfie met his end in the yolk.

So this is the moral, not a joke:
Be careful where your boot-tips poke.