By Gwendolyn Brooks
There once was a tiger, terrible and tough,
who
said "I don't think tigers are stylish enough.
They put on only orange and stripes of fierce black.
Fine and fancy fashion is what they mostly lack.
Even though they proudly
speak most loudly,
so
that the jungle shakes
and
every eye awakes—
Even though they slither
hither and thither
in
such a wild way
that few may care to stay—
to
be tough just isn't enough."
These things the tiger said,
And
growled and tossed his head,
and
rushed to the jungle fair
for
something fine to wear.
Then!—what a hoot and yell
upon the jungle fell
The
rhinoceros rasped!
The
elephant gasped!
"By
all that's sainted!"
said wolf—and fainted.
The
crocodile cried.
The
lion sighed.
The
leopard sneered.
The
jaguar jeered.
The
antelope shouted.
The
panther pouted.
Everyone screamed
"We
never dreamed
that ever could be
in
history
a
tiger who loves
to
wear white gloves.
White gloves are for girls
with manners and curls
and
dresses and hats and bow-ribbons.
That's the way it always was
and
rightly so, because
it's nature's nice decree
that tiger folk should be
not
dainty, but daring,
and
wisely wearing
what's fierce as the face,
not
whiteness and lace!"
They shamed him and shamed him—
till none could have blamed him,
when at last, with a sigh
and
a saddened eye,
and
in spite of his love,
he
took off each glove,
and
agreed this was meant
all
to prevail:
each tiger content
with his lashing tail
and
satisfied
with his strong striped hide.
with his strong striped hide.
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