Tarzan

The house is still, no sounds to wake

The two-legged oafs

Who cried and moaned and quaked,

When sleeping is all the effort I’ll ever make.

No arms to reach that itch, that scritch I hated

Just behind my ears

With deft-like fingers scratching a tainted,

furry mane where fleas once happily congregated.

I linger at the door no more, looking out

At the luscious green

Mine to prowl and rule and scout,

Now barren without my pretty pout.

My bed, though cold and compressed

Hidden beneath roots

Where only those in leaves and bark – well dressed,

Mark my final home, my permanent rest.