He’s just as old as me, or perhaps a little older,
a visual heartfelt memory, of times that were less colder,
lounging back in blue vest, proud stains upon his paws,
though he maybe tiger, there are no sign of claws,
he’s a sign of peace, that states, no fighting in the den,
in silent cotton wisdom, he reminds me to be Ben,
I look into his amber eyes, and I can clearly see,
after the fog of life wisps away, all I see is me,
he’s perched upon mock challis, of Tudor yesteryear,
to mark the rite of passage, orange juice to a beer,
a semblance of maturity, attaches to my child,
in times, to be a strongman, where I have to be less mild,
he’s stuffed tiger on the goblet, these things are my friends,
they will never leave my side, until my day beckons,
I need them to retell my soul, I have some wholesome roots,
his roar will echo into cup, a sound that has no mutes.