The Tiger is Dead

Did I not tell you that the Tiger is dead?
Some greedy fucker shot him in the head,
Gutted him clean and took his heart
Gleaned the skin to sit before the hearth.

Did you not know that the Tiger is dead?
From whence he walked, things changed, he fled,
Morsels appealed, but only for a while
His coat fell foul, you know, went out of style
Some wondered if, by the grace of want,
He would recover, again shadow the font
But alas, this poor beast's path was fixed
His habitat, unbeknown, decaying, diseased.

Had you missed the news that the Tiger is dead?
Were you under a rock when his eyes they said,
"I had hoped for longer, to see this out,
I'm sorry guys, we've lost this bout."
He meant well, no, he really did
But foresight wasn't to lift the lid
And so, though blind, he ambled on
Lost and starving, seen by no one.

It seems to me you are oblivious,
To the Tiger's death, his parting breath,
Take a seat, be still, I'll refresh
The faculties that often test
Our capacity for remembering, hope
The one so often, a noose, can't cope,
You see, the prowl is over, the prey is gone
There is no king, when one rules alone
The territory is barren, a desert, cursed
The lining bought for dignity's purse
Which strings up citizens, united, worse
Off than they ever have been,
The Tiger is dead,
Have you not seen?

1 comment:

  1. This is THE only good poem you wrote. Sadistic, dysfunctional man that you are