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.