#tiger - Hello Poetry

Whenever in the valleys, of the Indian north, a mortal be devoured, a man of sort, and its remains, when found, be smoked in a pyre, the elders would then, in their deep despair, speak of the spirits, evils and devils from the woods, He would then step in the story, to collect the imperial's goods, often with a hand soaked in a serpent's red, other carrying a snout, long barrelled, rammed with munition n' lead, brass crown, he being a white, with the wheats n' brown, would spend discussions, in a course of due, days, sometimes seven, or thirty and a two, till finally there would days, of uncovering the mist, some cattles would be tied, to summon the evil beast, and the 'he' of the story, be resting in machans on tacks, on a few branches above the hooved one's backs, several nights of blank sight, would then have passed, descending census would flourish the rumours tossed, until the beast ranked evil, be unveiled in the scene, the cattle be bellowing, awakening, the 'he' so keen, red stripes would appear from the swatches of green, from grasses towards the moon, be growing lean, few flashes would spark, and dampen the roars, munitions be heard, to ears awake in terrors. There comes a dawn, driving off the fright, from awaiting eyes, by a meanly pleasant sight, of the evil lying by, the trail of its blood, and 'he' the skins the carcass, after it journeys from towns, for more eyes to believe, the seeming end of their mourns. The valour of its slayer, 'his' be sung in words, "Such was our Jim, of Corbett Edward's."

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Feb 11

Feb 11, 2026 at 8:05 AM UTC

OneIII

The Hunt -

Whenever in the valleys, of the Indian north, a mortal be devoured, a man of sort, and its remains, when found, be smoked in a pyre, the elders would then, in their deep despair, speak of the spirits, evils and devils from the woods, He would then step in the story, to collect the imperial's goods, often with a hand soaked in a serpent's red, other carrying a snout, long barrelled, rammed with munition n' lead, brass crown, he being a white, with the wheats n' brown, would spend discussions, in a course of due, days, sometimes seven, or thirty and a two, till finally there would days, of uncovering the mist, some cattles would be tied, to summon the evil beast, and the 'he' of the story, be resting in machans on tacks, on a few branches above the hooved one's backs, several nights of blank sight, would then have passed, descending census would flourish the rumours tossed, until the beast ranked evil, be unveiled in the scene, the cattle be bellowing, awakening, the 'he' so keen, red stripes would appear from the swatches of green, from grasses towards the moon, be growing lean, few flashes would spark, and dampen the roars, munitions be heard, to ears awake in terrors. There comes a dawn, driving off the fright, from awaiting eyes, by a meanly pleasant sight, of the evil lying by, the trail of its blood, and 'he' the skins the carcass, after it journeys from towns, for more eyes to believe, the seeming end of their mourns. The valour of its slayer, 'his' be sung in words, "Such was our Jim, of Corbett Edward's."