Lycanthropy is in his blood,
and spreads to those he slays
Uncontrolled metamorphosis,
undetectable by day
But when the moon is waxing,
and all the world's asleep
Through woods and fields,
the werewolf he will creep

Even a man who is pure heart,
and says his prayers at night
can become a werewolf when the wolfsbane blooms,
and the Autumn moon is bright

He instinctively seeks to kill,
the thing he loves the best
He'll bare his teeth, growl and snarl,
and wish upon you death

His suffused eyes will glare in hate,
silver-grey hair will shine
He'll grip you in his muscular arms,
and on your your flesh will dine

Cures are rare for this schizophrenic,
a Marfisa flower is a start
Silver topped cane, a crucifix,
a silver bullet through the heart