The soul of the tiger is in his stride,
The way he glides over the ground,
Moves like a shadow in the grass,
And heads toward prey like a bloodhound.

The soul of the tiger is in his paws,
Heavy, velvet, and soft as silk,
Treading silently through wild woods,
With claws like swords taken from hilts.

The soul of the tiger is in his stealth,
Like a brown mist he sneaks about,
Noiselessly he circles prey:
A pace without a pause of doubt.

The soul of the tiger is in his strength,
His thick muscles are tough as steel,
Rippling as he walks and moves,
They let him quickly catch his meal.

The soul of the tiger is in his mind,
He's got a heart as hard as iron,
With fierceness that comes from the wild,
His attitude more brave than a lion.