It’s past the time for introductions lately.
But all is well, I tell you once again.
The VIPs now call me almost daily
And ask to sing The Hunt for Wolves for them.

Perhaps, he tried to understand his kids,
Or maybe he had heard it from the windows.
But anyway, the big wig called his peeps:
A tape recorder ordered by his minnows.

A family conversation ’round the table,
In his apartment, where the lights are dim.
He checked the volume, mindful of his neighbors,
Then pressed the little button on a whim.

He failed to understand the final words
(His helpers have procured a worn-out copy).
He listened to the Wolf Hunt’s rugged chords,
And something else that also sounded sloppy.

He noted what the record had to offer,
The end was missing, so he grabbed the phone:
"Go find that guy. The Wolf Hunt. Yes, its author.
And send him to my office in the morn."

Suppressing frequent hiccups at the start
(I drank no wine for courage in his presence),
I yelled to him the very same The Hunt
Right from his doorstep to the final sentence.

Of course, he was reminded by his children
To put a smile of welcome on his face.
He listened to me well, his thoughts well hidden,
And at the end he clapped to show his grace.

Then, tinkling with the bottle on the glass,
(He found it midst the books, where it was hiding)
He blurted out: "But it’s ’bout me, ’bout us,
About us all! To hell with wolves and hunting!"

That’s it for now - I wonder where it’s heading?
Three years have passed, and I am overwhelmed.
The VIPs now call me almost daily
And ask to sing The Hunt for Wolves for them.