Grey Wilf

Hear me howling at the moon;
The moment cannot come too soon
When something really has to change
Out here on the lonely, open range.

No lack of shelter or of food
Will stop this need for me to brood,
To spend my days in feeling shame
At this, my awful, stupid name.

When I was born they called me pip,
Not pup, nor wolf pup, passed a lip.
Then Wilf’s the word they used for me,
A word I never wished to be.

Whoever named me Wilf should know
That I can cross the deepest snow;
No rivers bar my measured lope –
What drives me on is this one hope:

That Wolf will be the name I bear,
And soon the day that I’ll be there
Among the pack and hunting free –
Oh what a moment that will be.