The wolf cries. She cries, cries, cries against a John ford sky. A roe of empty saddles are the trophies of those she discards. She summons her sycophants, they'll feed her narcissism.
The wolf cries, not for any sound reason. The wolf cries against two desert monuments of herself. They're made of stone. Her sickening melody echoes from the dual towering edifice that give shade only to the pandering cubs of her pack.
Summon your sycophants, they'll feed your narcissism. The'll protect you from your conscience long enough for you to slip behind your hypochondria. The wolf cries. She cries, cries, cries against a John ford sky; a grand vista of her empty heart. Her self monuments, a gateway to the desert that is her soul.
The vista, a roe of empty saddles, the trophies of those she discarded.