by J.D. Edwards
Who doesn't a good shepherd choose?
Who spits on a care-giving hand?
But who so flock-like oneself views?
Think me soft, and you misunderstand.
With proper reverence did Blake behold
The stunning fierceness of who I am.
While Songs of Innocence may serve the fold,
I'm much more Tyger than The Lamb.
Now, please don't vilify, as Kipling did indeed,
My cunning, calculating style.
I only pounce when a kill is guaranteed,
But when I'm fed I'll stay a while.
You would otherwise not ever know,
Since such as I don't thrive in herds,
And neither circus nor zoo could ever show,
So heed, kind shepherd, these vital words.
Tigers are a work of art — unique and captivating.
With symmetry of fire every movement is adorned.
If ever herded, held captive, or forced through flaming-ring,
Hell hath no furry like that of a tiger scorned.
If you get to care for a tiger of any size
(And I share this for your own sake),
Feed, protect, and esteem as rarest prize
All that I am, without mistake:
In Eden's age the most vicious creatures still were blessed
By a royal pastor's patient care.
In green pastures, even tigers can find rest;
An open, trustworthy hand can guide me anywhere.
Copyright © 2018 Jason David Edwards, Castle Rock, CO. All rights reserved.
