The Tyrant King
See a monster: jagged teeth, matte scales,
roars and bellows, standing above limpid kills;
from amber eye to long oaken tail,
this darkly form does stalk the land and hills.
Blood does stain the maw and chest, a pink sheen,
mixed with saliva rank; upon the ground:
scattered meat, a tribute to a death so mean.
Then it does leave, each footfall a grim sound.
Like Death does it wander, seeking new prey,
victims to savour and enjoy, for it
is a voracious thing, new meat each day:
this is survival of the vilest fit.
Yet, by the Age of the Human, never
more will it be, but a twee ball of fluff and feather.
(Please, rip it apart.)
