Except for hunters of the night -
not the usual suspect range -
Blake’s Tyger would be burning bright
’cept carpetbaggers, trappers strange.
The rugs rolled back, as maybe bile -
cartoons to carton, Pooh to flake;
the threat we’d seen was given smile,
for art of petrol tankers’ sake.
From sad or silly, that power drives,
this globe which human beings cull,
cheap shots where advertising thrives.
so majesty is voided, null.
That we should bait, tie flame to tale,
make Kipling cake of jungle book,
abandon anvil, furnace trail,
demean the mighty, humour hook?
Not fuel, this fearfully framed jewel -
why treat, the most beautiful cruel?