On their shoulders the beaters carry
The huge lame wolf

From between his bared fangs
His severed male sign swings
Drags in the dust
And leaves an unreadable track

In one of his ears is stuck
A bunch of stubble
In the other a bouquet of burdock

From his slit belly pokes out
Defiled sacred straw

The beaters and assembled dogs
And the flies on his wounds
And the pole of shame
All believe he is dead.