The tiger flashes sharpened teeth.

Bowler-hatted; summer briefs

Beneath his pinstriped skin.



To kill demands a business sense;

Economy moves non-residence

Approaching from down-wind.



Being a tiger means you laugh

Whenever lesser tigers have

To eat meat that's infected.



Being a tiger means your mate

When overfed will defecate

In places least expected.



Knowing a tiger means you must

Accept his promise of mutual trust

And offer him your throat.



Loving a tiger means you take

Second place to the cake you bake

And with undying servile obedience

keep the stiffly starched collar

of his conference shirt spotless

and remove daily the daubed bloody

evidence of his dastardly misdeeds

from the otherwise immaculate elegance

of his pinstripe tiger coat.



Period.