Top hat, waistcoat, ascot and,

a tail swishing around,

long.

Between those jaws,

With prose-filled teeth,

a lit cigar,

a true Havana.

Flared nostrils and long lashes,

British speech and American thought

yet hooves

that can’t hold a spoon.

Cross-legged

on a plush chair,

confused

by a world

that wants a ‘civilised’ beast.

Caught between

mannerism and manes,

he sits on a plush chair,

with a lit cigar.