Tuktu Weir nothing like a big bad bridge

Ravinger was constantly dialed to eleven.  There was no happy medium between his manic rantings or incessant laziness.  He was either up and ready to go or sleeping until two o'clock in the afternoon.  Naturally, he'd never considered that he was about too much for some wolves to take.  In his mind, he was a delight and inspired joy in others.  If a wolf was shy, he believed he could crack their shell and free them from what he assumed was a prison.

"I would love to teach you one!" he trilled eagerly, his tails and tail standing up. "I think it's a good time for a fun song, or - well - at least I think it's fun." He chuckled to himself.  He'd been told in the past that his sense of humor was too ripe -- whatever that meant (only the High Elk knew, probably). "A song about... partaking in forbidden fruits." Wink wink. It's a song about fermented treats.

Ravinger cleared his throat:

"The white wolves have their nasty brew
Made of piss and bile
The sinners eat their bugs and twigs
And everything so vile

But those of us who walk the woods
Know life's greatest pleasure
Is strictly sweet, a tasty treat
It's moon sugar that we treasure

Fields drenched in moonlight
Dewed with summer rain
Brilliant green and growing tall
Sweet moon-sugar cane!
Sweet moon-sugar cane!"