When the wolves are among us and blood has cried out, The town must despise proof as burden to prosecute the rout. Pitchforks must be sharpened, Torches must be soaked, Gallows must be erected, reactions must be provoked. Lynch or be eaten— the blood god demands, Pretensions of pacifism only come from tainted hands, Only traitors demur from absolute judgements, Distraction from mob trials the only overindulgence. Accusations are the currency that keep our village alive, Those poor in suspicion we know most dangerously connive. When the tribunal’s noose swings over every head, Those rich in compassion soon find themselves swinging dead. Make friends and choose wisely— their sins will spread to you, But without the right alliances, what can a dead man do? The weight of loyalty can absolve your corpse of guilt; But when blood's high in the village, fealty cannot the hunt stilt— The psychology of trust is on haphazard platforms built. Wolves wear village clothing by day and play nice, So that truly the nights in the village are not what most viciously bites. Argument stems from rhetoric and not the other way ’round; Else indecision betrays action when logic becomes too sound. Charisma loud and often our voices roar to affirm, Until it slips up too often, and the huntress ends its term. In the heat of divination, take note of the pitchfork that points, And the patterns that support— where wolves often expose their joints. At every event look away to how ’tis attended elsewhere Fixated on action, masks slip to show there: Bloodlust most sinister— their animalistic fever Draped in shades of night to be the dark deceiver; Thirsting loudly on each breath with power to engulf: “BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!” our Ultimate Werewolf.
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