A little piece written for a young child, and enjoyed at the time. Literature it’s not, but who says writing poetry (?), doggerel or verse, call it what you will, can’t be fun? I have others like this, but I promise, this is the only one I intend to inflict on an unsuspecting world. Here goes then, the sad, sad story of a little stripy tiger.

 

 

A stripy little tiger took

A flying leap upon a duck,

But missing, as he didn’t oughter,

Continued straight into the water,

From where he trudged to drier land,

And said, ’Those birdies should be banned

From widdle-waddling on the sand.

They always get away from me,

Upon this sand which moves so free.’

He found a sunny place to dry

His fur, and then began to cry.

’It isn’t fair,’ he sniffed and mumbled.

’Those birds have always got me rumbled.

Although I’m told that ducks are dumb

They move each time they  see me come,

And watch me fall upon my bum.

And all because I slide and slip

Upon the sand. I lose my grip.’

’I lose my grip. The sand moves free.

It is so dry and powdery.

I slide and slither, skid – and splosh!

In I go. A daily wash.’

The tiger settled down to rest,

And thought great thoughts of how to best

The ducks and geese, and all the rest

Who laughed at Stripy’s best endeavour

To show the world that he was clever.

’Ah, now I know just what I’ll do.

I’ll get a certain type of glue

And spread it out upon the sand,

From water’s edge up to the land.

This will give my claws a grip

Each time I take a hunting trip.

Never more a daily dip

In water that I cannot drink,

But where I hold my nose and sink.’

He got the glue, but don’t ask where

He got it from. I wouldn’t dare

To tell you even if I knew it

And if I did, you’d only rue it.

Sometimes it doesn’t pay to know.

Sometimes it’s best to stay down low

And never ask where tigers go.

Just bear in mind, make no mistake,

Tigers never ask – they take!

The glue was spread out on the sand.

The tiger did it all by hand.

Assuming tigers have, of course,

A hand at all, instead of paws.

He spread it fast.

He spread it quick.

He spread it on so very thick.

’It’s bound,’ he said, ’to do the trick.’

Then settling in amongst the trees,

He stretched out perfectly at ease.

At ease he watched till he was bored

With waiting for his just reward

This took him less than half an hour,

Until his rage began to tower.

And then his tummy started rumbling.

’Oh, shut up, you,’ he told it, grumbling,

But very quiet, only mumbling,

In case the birds became aware

That there was still a tiger there.

Then very soon the ducks came down,

Followed by three geese, all brown.

They flew down only yards away

From where our stripy tiger lay.

’That’s it,’ he said. ’I think they’ll do’

And with a roar, he leapt right through

The trees. His paws sank in the glue.

He couldn’t move, although he tried.

He should have waited till it dried.

You should have heard him scream and shout.

You should have seen his tongue hang out.

His face went black, he swished his tail,

He gave a howl, a cry, a wail.

At length his anger ran its course,

(His voice by now was rather hoarse).

He couldn’t lift his feet by force,

So settled down and wondered when

He’d manage to get out again.

Up came a goose, up came a duck.

’I say there, tiger, are you stuck?

Oh, what a pity, what a shame

You can’t join in our little game.’

The birds lined up in separate rows.

Each took a turn to peck his nose,

Each getting in some solid blows.

’Oh dear,’ he whined. ’I’ve made a bungle.

I should have stayed within my jungle.’

The sun went down, the moon rose high,

And watched the little tiger cry.

The tears came streaming like a hose,

Went past his cheeks, bounced off his nose,

Then trickled down into the sand

Around his toes. It did feel grand

To think he’d soon have solid land

Beneath his feet, instead of glue

And feeling woeful through and through.

His tears dissolved the glue, you see.

First one foot came, then two, then three,

And with a bound across the sand

He very soon reached solid land.

’But now – oh dear – I shouldn’t rush.

I’m tangled up inside a bush,’

He cried as tears began to gush.

The ducks came down, first five, then ten,

And queued to peck his nose again.

That night, and feeling far from well,

The tiger from the bushes fell.

He slunk away, his tail held low,

But where he went to, I don’t know.

He crept away on silent toes,

Pink tongue caressing aching nose.

Next morning when the sun arose

To cast its shining light upon

The beach, it found the tiger gone.

But where he went to, I can’t say.

I only know he went away.

Don’t worry if you ever see

A tiger tangled in a tree,

Looking like a first class clown

Though wearing quite a horrid frown,

And quite unable to get down.

Although he says, ’I’m pleased to meet you,’

You can be sure he’ll never eat you.

However much he’d like his dinner,

It’s obvious he’s much, much thinner.

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