Wolves - Based From Hamlet's Sililoquy

To be, or not to be- that is the question:

Whether ‘tis nobler to leave the pack
And suffer the ice and cold of a winter bare
Or to have my keep with in the troubled air
And my soul oppose the night’s simple pleasures and weep?
To sing - To cry-

No more; and to call and sing
We end the heartache and a thousand natural things
That vanish to the dark-
‘Tis unearthly hope devoutly to be wished
To howl- To call-

To sing- perchance to love! Ay, there’s the rub!
For in that song of hope and love
What dreams may come
When we have shuffled off our mortal fears
Must give us pause

There’s the respect of a rogue that makes the hunter of solitude
For who would go the ice and rain covered paths of forest?

The pack is wrong, the lone wolf proud and true
The pangs of unwritten rights, the rule’s delay
The arrogance at head, and the scars of much blood shed
That patient merit of unissued takes
When he himself eats his quietus makes
With bared fangs? Who would burdens bear?

To grunt to growl under a weary life
But that the dread of winter’s death
The undiscover’d wonder, from whose bourn
And makes us bear cold nights alone
Than run to spirits we know not of?

Thus winter makes cowards of us all,
And thus the ancient songs of unearthly beheld hopes
With the pale casts of stars and moon,
And mystery of unknown dark-filled nights

With my regards to the pack, their chorus drifts awry
And I loose my snowy path