They always told me that
I would go down in history.
Vicious creature, thing of beasts.
I would roam the vast
red dirt canyons, sun gleaming the dust
in my fur, sand jamming its way in
between my claws.
Head held high by the crown
blessed by the food chain above.
I’d hear the countrymen below say
It’ll kill you children, eat your pets,
do not stare into the iridescent eyes
or its bites will be met.
Their shotguns finally crackled,
holes torn through my organs,
staining my fur.
My children watching me,
bushing tails and overgrown paws
now on their own.
I did go down in history,
even dipped in gold.
This countryman has me
front and center.
How he tamed the wild beast
as my vagrant eyes stare at his cadets.
Brave one, aren’t ya?