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He paced inside the cage, from side to side,
hot eyes, two burning coals and well alight,
they were not needed here, as darkness was his guide
there was a force in him, it taunted him each night.
He'd tried to kill the poachers, had been somewhat slow,
though one had sacrificed his arm, all for the cause,
he was the king but they had stolen the great show
it was a time where upright creatures made the laws.
And now and then he practiced roaring, like a lion,
it scared the bats and some would fall into the moat,
they could not blame him for the gesture or for trying
and in the morning he would still receive his goat.
He was Estonian, the director of the zoo,
a cold and cruel man, he'd feed his favourite cats
a morning porridge made from blood and guts, a brew,
and for dessert from iron buckets, living rats.
Each day there came a shipment of small critters,
he liked the Toggenburg in goats and Hampshire sheep,
while the Director had his Amarone Bitters
he watched the feast and took in memories to keep.
They'd throw the animals in through the narrow door
the fear was palpable and terror could be sniffed,
there was a leisurely and almost friendly roar
and then the action would be playful and...well, swift.
He'd sink his teeth into the neck and stayed there, still,
they'd have a strange and lengthy meeting of their eyes,
as if a pact was made, a love-in and a kill
he often wondered what the mind feels when one dies.
They didn't seem to, in his view, to mind at all
and to the king it was a homecoming of sorts,
as if a child had been away and grown too tall
and had returned here for the ultimate of sports.
He'd rip the flesh to catch the final beats in time
and kept the heart itself inside the closing jaws,
strong muscles chewed and he resembled now a mime
who mocked the urgency of eating without pause.
There was no lion in his cage to share or steal
yet it was instinct honed back in a previous life
when on a Sunday after New Years, they served veal,
and left the door ajar. He ate the keeper's wife.
Herbert Nehrlich
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