Purple Wolf

I wrote a poem for America. Here it is:

Purple Wolf
by Whitney Hemsath

The wolf snuck in with colored wool.
One sheep would not be made a fool
And so cried loud for all to hear:
“It’s red like blood, which stains its teeth,
And note the fur that lies beneath.
Let’s purge our fold of this, the killer beast!”
The flock began to nod assent,
Except some, who squinted with intent
And bleated, “Actually, its wool is blue.”
The sheep all stopped to tip their heads
—Was the violet more blue? Or was it red?—
While the wolf stood there and posed.
“Look at it this way.” “Don’t be blind.”
“Stupidity like yours is a special kind.”
They butted heads and stomped their cloven feet.
“You must hate the sky if you don’t see blue.”
“If you can’t see red, I’ll stop talking to you.”
And the wolf just stood there and posed.
Soon words and horns were not enough
No victory could be won with fluff
And so they armed themselves with fangs and claws.
The wolf slunk back to watch the scene—
Every sheep in wolf’s clothing, teeth bared and mean.
And bleating
Turned to bleeding
Which turned to
Silence.
Then the wolf stepped forward and shed its skin
Revealing with a gummy grin
That its teeth were fake and useless.
But such a detail hardly mattered
Now that the flock was dead and scattered.
The wolf simply feasted at its leisure.