You smile like a wolf about to ****.
Your cruel, sharpened fangs barred in spite.
Your voice was gold, your white cuspids alight.
You smile at your prey; we deer stand still.
I know the smile shall end where it will.
I know it never reaches to your eyes
And I know, like one bitten once or twice,
That the wolf closes its eyes to ****.
The wolf leans in too close, panic sets in
Stumbling through apologetic speech in
An effort to get somewhere else, again...
The deer springs into action, can't win
For wolves hunt in packs, the wingman swoops in
Now trapped by foes unbeatable, I'm slain.
This is a Petrarchan sonnet about wolves and deer.