Eskimos bury
The handle of
A razor-sharp knife,
Bearing a lump of
Frozen meat, to be precise
Layers of  blood In the wilderness of ice.
Lured Wolfs gather round it
And unaware their own
Snow-frozen tongues they slit
They voraciously lick, lick and lick
Along with own blood, hot and tick.

'What a windfall luck! '
They think
'We are feeding on our blood! '
Before comes to their hea...

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