My lion howled demands:
"Fetch me sex and cigarettes,
thick, yellow cream and fatted meat.
Groom me till I shine like pride;
pet me till we fall asleep."

I bowed when lion growled.
Drunk by muddy water holes,
we gorged until our hides grew tight,
napped without a dream of death,
lazing to our heart's content.

Quite soon we both fell ill.
Stuck fast in boggy indolence,
my hair grew limp, his fur grew dull,
yet we lingered in the swamp,
nipping fleas while we both sank.

I knew that we must leave.
"Lion, I am in control,
for I have thought and you have none.
I will lead, and you will serve;
we will go where I command."

My lion blinked, then laughed.
I flushed our drugs and junky-quick
he slashed my gut with needle claws,
knocked me down with mighty weight,
roared his anger in my face.

I fought with ruthless tactics.
I kicked him in the ribs and then
I crammed my lion in a pen,
clubbed him when he shook the bars,
whipped him when he clawed the locks.

I stayed on spartan diets,
drank sips of holy water.
Twisted to a lotus, I hummed
lengthy, monkish mantras.
I fought, each day, for uplift
from the lion's fleshy state.

And yet, we both stayed sick.
My lion's fur was matted
and my skin was dry and dull.
I found that I was lonely
and I missed the beast's content.

I loosed him from his cage.
My right hand on his muzzle,
my left hand reached beneath his jaw,
both my feet were planted firm
and ready if we wrestled.

It shook to test my grip.
I gently held its head.
The beast stood free, magnificent,
neither lord nor lowly pet,
tamed but yet a lion still.

I sing a song to life,
a hymn of symbiosis.
The song goes up in harmony:
good-willed, now, and gleaming,
my lion sings along.