At LSU, a tiger's in a cage
behind the stadium. Mike is his name.
He paces his enclosure like a stage
and seems indifferent to his modest fame.
In summer his fur blazes like a flame,
and bars like hash-marks counting out his age
enmesh his stripes. Always, before the game,
they print programs with Mike on every page.
And all night, like a madman in his cell,
the tiger paces, tracing out the same
figure-eight path, imagining Indian sage
in the cheerleaders' perfume--such a smell!
Thinking of student bodies he would maim,
Mike walks in majesty, seething with rage.
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