Hunger lingers deep in the stomach of a tiger. His paws are weak and his back is bending. No longer does his body hold the power it once had. The bars of his cage have found frailty in his soul.
His growl is tender, softening to the ear. A pitied shadow of his once mighty roar. Growing out of fashion, a tiger's majesty is. People adore lions ever since that damn movie.
Soon there will be no need to show one off. He will become irrelevant as time courses on. He sheds a countless tear, for when he has died, so too would the last tears for the tiger lay to rest.
It will be a sad morning, when the tiger is crownless. A lion usurper, a pretender. But I can say I knew who the real king was, and he did not bear a golden coat nor sing in a jungle of bugs.
One cannot deny the stripes, however forgotten they may be.
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