He stalks in his vivid tripes
The few steps of his cage,
On pads of velvet quiet,
In his quiet rage.
He should be larking in shadow,
Sliding throught long grass
Near the water hole
Where plump deer pass.
He should be snarling around houses
At the Jungle's edge,
Baring his white fangs, his claws,
Terrorising the village!
But he's looking in a concrete cell,
His strength behind bars,
Stalking the length of his cage,
Ignoring visitors.
He hears the last voice at night,
The patrolling cars,
And stares with his brilliant eyes
At the brilliant stars.