Wise men told how it came to pass,
St. Anthony strolled through fields of grass.
To him the tiger said with a ferocious grin,
Hairy lips quivered on a double chin.
“Women kill men with ugh! Warpaint,
And I kill all but then I'm no saint, Saint.
“Females stick with their tuck and trim,
And men get fat away from the gym.
“Life to me is a kind of mess,
So much like the jungle, I guess.”
The kind Saint stopped and gave a sigh,
Then his hand pointed up up into the sky.
The tiger looked way past the cloud,
At a cupid- bow hung like a shroud.
“Maybe that, that's what I love to see,
Juicy real red meat and forget the tea.
“So good to chew and chew, such a delight,
On a belle woman; she's a ravishing sight.
Yet, still I choke on powder and paint?
Driven to eat 'cause I'm no saint, Saint.”
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem