King of the Jungle

Quietly. Patiently. Eagerly. He waits for the moment
To pounce, a quick and lethal strike with but an ounce of strength.
To what lengths he would wait, to what ends he would bend,
Just to see it to fruition. Flowing mane across his back,
Rapidly on the attack, but knowing when to retreat,
For his ultimate goal, burning within him, hotter than coal,
Is that fresh piece of meat, sinking his teeth
Into the raw flesh of his prey. He is ruthless,
The best, better than all the rest,
"King of the Jungle" they say, but he knows,
The reason he kills is to satiate the hunger that grows
Endlessly, within him, forcing him to use his skills
To stalk and follow, to fill him up, at least until tomorrow,
That ceaseless gnawing within, drawing him in to violence.
"King of the Jungle" they call him.

Some king he is now, for, although they bow,
His world, once the open plains, is now ever so plain,
So barren and void, devoid of what he once knew.
"Gary, King of the Jungle" now his official title, yet lacking
The fresh wind that blew through his hair, the crowds just stare and gawk,
Hoping to hear his roaring voice, to see his regal form.
How boring, this same endless whoring, selling his sovereign name
For a tiny bit of fame and fortune, with some lame campaign.
Caged in, anxious, enraged at his captors,
He sits. Waiting. Quietly. Eagerly.
Patiently for his chance, for one last dance with death,
To remind them why they sing of him as "King of the Jungle."