The Finnish Hunter kills one of the 140 wolves left in the wild

The Fin stands in
the Winter snow
the trees all decked
with frost and snow
he’s shot a wolf
with his heartless mind
with his foul mouthed face
which is underlined
by his wretched liver
full of angst
and his gut
no doubt
a complete disgrace
full of dairy
and red roast meat
his blood so acid
and swollen feet
enclosed by boots
of dead animal skin
he’s a man
a real proud Fin
and behold he hold
a lifeless soul
sort of around
as tall as him
and on the ground
we can see the blood
the rich red stain
and a smarmy flood
of conjecture
as he’s standing there
holding its legs
up in the air
of the 140 wolves left he
has murdered one of them
and we can see
the joy he has
on his pitiful face
lined with vile
and awkward fear
an emanation
and ugly grin
on the face of this
rather monstrous Fin
the brave and lifeless
Wolf has flown
to the rainbow bridge
his stature grown
by the dire event
on that wintry day
when gutless wonder
came to slay
not just this soul
but of course his mate
his cubs his pack
what of their fate
such love that bond
between the wild folk
who in each others
blood they soak
such sad remorse
the howls will cum
the moon will hear
the beating drum
of the wolves who pine
for their comrade
who
fell when the monster
gun did spew.