My grandfather used to have his own saying,
I heard it at Christmas and every single haying.
You know that one about clouds and their lining
That usually stops people too busy whining?
“There’s a silver bullet in every single lining.”
Was what he said when we were dining.
First I thought that he got it wrong,
I had a think and that didn’t last long.
Then I assumed he really meant the clouds,
Maybe some wisdom for selfish crowds.
(You need to take a bullet to help someone else,
You or somebody to scour some hells.)
Then I found out about his past,
Lots of action and cars that go fast.
In addition blood and claws and fur.
His occupation was to hunt a he-cur.
A werewolf hunter and silver are tight.
The bosomest buddies on a full moon night.
Every single jacket and every single coat,
Had bullets sewn in right next to the throat.
If he ever ran out when on a the hunt,
He tore them out with barely a grunt.
Blasted away that spawn of night,
To make my future slightly more bright.
Thanks to him now we only have one.
One that lost while our family won.