Once a month when the Moon is new,
The pitiful mewling Namerew,
Elongates from its lupine norm,
Into a pallid, lesser form,
Its fur falls off, its teeth sink in,
It can not howl, and to begin,
To enumerate how it grows wrong,
Would make this rhyme go on too long.
It smells all funny to the pack,
Which is why, mostly they attack,
And bite the beast until it's dead,
For only silver its blood won't shed.