As the wolf's madness goes in crescendo, as he keeps on hurling and howling with no sense, dancing around the moonlight, our character tries to figure out the best outcome for this small adventure: maybe playing death would work? He knows he only has minutes until the frenzy of the wolf becomes hunger.
"He seems to like a certain weird sort of poetry -our smart boy thinks -so maybe I can perform a fake death that will save me". This, dear reader, makes as much sense to us as it makes to you.
Ahem, ahem:
Death!
Plop.
The barges down in the river flop.
Flop, plop.
Above, beneath.
From the slimy branches the grey drips drop,
As they scraggle black on the thin grey sky,
Where the black cloud rack-hackles drizzle and fly To the oozy waters, that lounge and flop
On the black scrag piles, where the loose cords plop,
As the raw wind whines in the thin tree-top.
Plop, plop.
And scudding by
The boatmen call out hoy! and hey!
All is running water and sky,