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Tiger, tiger, burning
bright,
In the forest of
the night,
What immortal hand
or eye
Could frame thy fearful
symmetry?
In what distant deeps
or skies
Burnt the fire of
thine eyes?
On what wings dare
he aspire?
What the hand dare
seize the fire?
And what shoulder,
and what art,
Could twist the sinews
of thy heart?
When thy heart began
to beat,
What dread hand forged
thy dread feet?
What the hammer?
What the chain?
In what furnace was
thy brain?
What the anvil? What
dread grasp
Dared its deadly
terrors clasp?
When the stars threw
down their spears
And watered heaven
with their tears,
Did He smile his
work to see?
Did He who made the
lamb make thee?
Tiger, tiger, on
the mat,
You're nothing but
a pussy cat,
But damn your eyes
and rue the day!
I have to clean your
litter tray.
with apologies to William Blake