A Dying Tiger moaned for Drink
I hunted all the Sand
I caught the Dripping of a Rock
And bore it in my Hand
His Mighty Balls in death were thick
But searching I could see
A Vision on the Retina
Of Water and of me
‘Twas not my blame who sped too slow
‘Twas not his blame who died
While I was reaching him
But ’twas the fact that He was dead
