The Shepley Lion

Stalking as it has done for millennia
It prowls the warm Pennine hillside
Evading human eyes

Scourge of ancient homesteads
His cunning admired
His strength feared

From Birdsedge to Holmfirth
They talk of him, and the Golden Cradle
Buried in Round Wood

Where the circle of the dead lies
Waiting to give up its secrets
For a price

Patrolling at dusk, in the shadows
Demanding a tarrif none are willing
To pay

It is said that some evenings
At the Cask & Spindle
Its growl may still be heard

A warning to all who seek ancient secrets
A reminder of forgotten powers
And the past

Still, the Shepley Lion
Has us
In his thrall

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