IL GATTO NERO

The evening sun spreads its golden arms wide,

As the alley king stalks his savage domain.

His mangled ears are a mark he's not tame,

And his smile displays deadly daggers inside.

His coat is unfit, a moth-eaten hide.

He needs no mantle to prove he does reign,

Because no one here will rebuke his claim.

All scrape and bow at the scent of his pride.

Then with a twist, Fate deals its cruel hand.

The King spits and hisses, setting the snare tight.

This pole and noose, bring the king to the ground.

All rejoice for the king has been canned,

But then the voices whisper in pure delight-

Who among us will take up his feted crown?