I’ve passed through first and running-into phases;
I’m fine and calm and never lose my wool...
Big people call me up to their places
So that I’d sing how men are hunting wolves.

... Perhaps, he heard me singing in some place
Or, maybe, from his kids he got an order,
I’ll never know - but, in any case,
Some party brass once bought a tape-recorder.

Then in a home, private atmosphere,
Relaxing after strenuous a day
And making sure, neighbors wouldn’t hear,
He cautiously pressed the button “Play”.

The record quality was bad and he got sore,
But through the noise and through a hissing sound
He heard “Wolf hunting” and, besides, some more
Of those songs he thought were underground.

The tape annoyed him with the awful grunting,
But still the message he somehow caught,
He called his aide: “The author of “Wolf hunting”
Tomorrow to my office must be brought!”

For bravery no bottle did I crack,
Though clammy fear in my guts was swelling,
And as the door was shut behind my back
About wolves, like mad, I started yelling.

He wasn’t angry, punitive or vicious,
His children must have asked him to be bland;
He smiled and looked auspicious and propitious
And even clapped a little in the end.

Then, with a clang, he filled a crystal glass
And said omitting mandatory “Cheers!”:
“To hell with wolves! The song’s about us,
About me and all my bloody fears!”...

Would I be harnessed into reins and traces?
My phone’s hot from calls. It never cools.
Big people call me up to their places
So that I’d sing how men are hunting wolves!