by Gwendolyn Brooks
There once was a tiger, terrible and tough,
who said “I don’t think tigers are stylish enough.
They put on only orange and stripes of fierce black.
Fine and fancy fashion is what they mostly lack.
Even though they proudly
speak most loudly,
so that the jungle shakes
and every eye awakes—
Even though they slither
hither and thither
in such a wild way
that few may care to stay—
to be tough just isn’t enough.”
These things the tiger said,
And growled and tossed his head,
and rushed to the jungle fair
for something fine to wear.
Then!—what a hoot and yell
upon the jungle fell
The rhinoceros rasped!
The elephant gasped!
“By all that’s sainted!”
said wolf—and fainted.
The crocodile cried.
The lion sighed.
The leopard sneered.
The jaguar jeered.
The antelope shouted.
The panther pouted.
Everyone screamed
“We never dreamed
that ever could be
in history
a tiger who loves
to wear white gloves.
White gloves are for girls
with manners and curls
and dresses and hats and bow-ribbons.
That’s the way it always was
and rightly so, because
it’s nature’s nice decree
that tiger folk should be
not dainty, but daring,
and wisely wearing
what’s fierce as the face,
not whiteness and lace!”
They shamed him and shamed him—
till none could have blamed him,
when at last, with a sigh
and a saddened eye,
and in spite of his love,
he took off each glove,
and agreed this was meant
all to prevail:
each tiger content
with his lashing tail
and satisfied
with his strong striped hide.
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