The Tiger

By: Jack Rutman, Mar 30, 2022


Fitfull creature, dead of night
Of heaving soul and moaning light
who's cursed by god to walk anew
amongst the jungle, always through
the thickest trees amongst the fray
the winding vines, the wilding way
the danger lurking evermore
and who doth his reserve it for?

The tiger! Oh! the beast of yore!
The twinkling devil! The Ghastly sore!
It's he who walks the plain alone
to stalk and prey and kill and moan
for when he sees the prey to kill
he curls his paws, his whiskers stills
He stares at what he longs for most
his lurid fun, his bitter toast

and when he so decides to maim
the poorest babe, the smallest game,
he lets the blood drip ear from ear
across his face, down his vineer
of course That's what he ought to do
To kill for fun and tear in two
The sweetest child that god create
and drag untward, to heavan's gate