Thereís a tiger in my bathroom,
fixing me with feral grin,
Golden eyes and shaded menace.
Who the Devil let him in?

Heís been sitting in my bathroom
probably about an hour,
Iíve just come in from the garden
and Iíd love to take a shower.

Why is he sat in my bathroom?
I just havenít got a clue.
Heís been there for simply ages
and Iím busting for the loo.

There's a tiger in my bathroom
looking smug, complacent : ď Stout? Ē
Hope he hasnít ate my missus!
Strange! Iíve not seen her about.

Great sharp claws within my bathroom.
Long white teeth, look like theyíd hurt.
Licks a morsel from his whiskers;
(hope he doesnít want dessert.)

There's a tiger in my bathroom.
Heís been sitting there all day.
I just nurse my stricken bladder,
nothing else to do or say.

What a friendly little tiger;
that grim smile is just a fake.
He just wants to read my poetry
(Thought that I was William Blake).

Now heís sitting, quite contented
in his fearful symmetry,
While I sit upon the toilet
spouting awful poetry.

Soon he stretches mighty muscles;
stands up, says to meď Good Day!
Sorry that I ate your MissusĒ.

Then he softly walks away.



© By Thomas Vaughan Jones (


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Dawn Chorus



Aerial Dream

Desert City

My Thoughts On A June Morning


Flower Box Visitors

I Saw My Daddy Once Again


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