Fun fact about being born in captivity,
you don't choose where you go next.
As it happens I left my cage
when I was still a mewling cub.
Somebody from the city thought
I'd be the perfect living decoration
for his flat twenty one stories up.
It wasn't as if I was along up there;
my alligator flatmate shared the space,
we even had our own bedrooms.
Al didn't get much exercise though.
Frozen chickens taste great in abundance,
and our keeper had plenty of those.
Sometimes he'd bring friends with him.
I'd introduce myself
regardless of their expectations.
Then that housecat arrived.
Clearly our keeper had forgotten
I had paws the size of plates.
It's a shame he got in the way,
otherwise I wouldn't have bitten him,
he wouldn't have gone to hospital,
a policeman wouldn't have tried to
parasail into the flat,
and I wouldn't have given him
a burglar's welcome.
My cage now is quite nice actually.
I get on well with the other tigers,
and my keepers feed me
more than chickens these days.
(This poem is based on the real-life story of Ming of Harlem. For further reading check out this New York Times article and this interview with Antoine Yates, Ming's owner.)
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