Hunt for the wounded warrior.
by James E. Peeche.
Way - O - way
On my way
To the day
That they say
Tiger of Tasman
Little Tiger O
People now know
How weak you grow
People brought in
Such as me
James E. Peeche
E.
Knowing little
Of how they live
Told only
Bring them in
Day - o - way
On the day
That we will meet
Little tiger of
Tasman
People furrow
Brow to know
Just the way
That it did go
Looking on
From long shot on
Tiger known
To tip-toe
People grown
Now they know
How to track
How to trap
Tiger known
Tracks traced back
Finding faeces
Lost my hat
Born on barnacle
Not on beech
My two weary
Little feet
Tiger seen
Finally
Weary
Relief
People Shout
Snout run about
Tiger gone
Weeks Forlorn
People with me
Wheel and whoop
I buckle down
And wander off
Silent shod
On I trod
Follow not
I fear not
Tiger
Trail
Me
Not fail
Weary
Weapon ready
Send a shot
Not run off
If Tiger seen
Will be a dream
Hero me
They will see
On I trod
Feet still shod
In some muck
And my shock
Every day
For whole way
I think to self
Hunt, Hunt!
Track, Trap
Hunt not trap
Now see so clearly
Mistake not me, but
thinking
Creep round bend
Rifle end
Tiger seen
Silly me...
I still feel shy
recounting this story, Shame of my life. I Died in 1965.
This is the story of
the absolute last Thylacine (Tasmanian Tiger.)
- James E Peeche. E.
