Now Blackfield, when the sun has set's a peaceful sleepy place,
But Jill gets restless on a moonlit night.
She finds the golden ringlets start to grow upon her face
And back, and howls, as any werewolf might.

In quadrapedal style
She will walk a country mile,
Through gardens, over fences, to the mud,
That lies beyond the hedge
At the cemetery's edge...
At dawn returning, features smeared with blood.

If Weaving gaily homeward from the Hampshire Yeoman pub,
And you glimpse out of the corner of your eye,
A shape that leaps the fence behind the British Legion Club,
That may be werewolf Jill that you espy.

For she'll scavenge round the bins
For the bones and chicken skins,
That other normal humans tend to waste,
For in her lupine guise,
(And to her own surprise,)
She finds such stuff amenable to taste.

She much prefers, however, That herself her food should catch,
And she'll lope across the common chasing bunny,
But as a part-time wolf she finds their speed she cannot match:
They get away, which she don't find too funny.

So listen closely kiddies,
Take on board these words of Tiddy's,
If you see a creature in a big fur coat,
Be homewards sure to hurry,
Or you'll hear a snarl, a flurry,
And Jill will sink her teeth into your throat.

* * *

If you want to set it to music it should fit to an obscure song about Friday night brawls in Glasgow billiard halls: Govan Is A Busy Place.

Last updated: Fri, 30 Aug 2002.