If not to howl at this, the
sliver moon,
then devour it
for Sirius is high
and the dog days are here

Go wary in these last of nights
you brown dogs,
for the old men
have sharp knives,
and this is a month
when your scalp is worth more
than the gold in mouths of men

They take no prisoners, these ancients
their blades, sharp as the night
this wet stoned steel
carries the heat of the day,
tarry then as sacrifice
for that, but never lust
give up your mask in honour
as there is none,
on a dog day late August