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.