Tiger, tiger, burned once bright, thy forests turn with dying light, from embers to ashes in gasoline fumes that reek of deeds obscene. The flames were fuelled in desperation by those who fear eradication of their ancient tribal lands their blood runs thick on industrial hands. They are thy lambs arranged for slaughter, they are the very sons and daughters of the forests of the night in who’s heart thou burn’st yet bright. Alas, therein thy days are numbered, thy primal scream by mechanical thunder is extinguished without thought or care by those who’s eyes see no despair, blind in sole pursuit of self from whom greed’s arrows have with stealth all empathy and grace dissected and cold cadavers resurrected, spectres of their former selves, emerging from the mouth of hell. They prey on our indifference and worm into our confidence for in the name of saving face, we ourselves by greed debase by casual purchases, ill considered we sell thee, tiger, down the river which carries vandals to ignite the unspoiled forests of the night. But thou o tiger, what chance thy rage to free thee from thy clinical cage? Near sole survivor of thy race, a dwindling band who’s time and place shall with fleeting memory take flight unless we help thee again burn bright.