Scythian Dead. The Griffin

The Griffin (see the picture)

I've got the fluffy pet for whom I care.
It's hard for me to be well with him, if in:
I nurture with my flesh the fledgling griffin
That no resentment 'gainst me might he bear.

His tongue, a mixture of a thousand pidgins,
Is understood to mean what's on my mind,
For I have tons of memories to bind,
With squabs too young to serve as homing pigeons.

But some day when he, virile and direct,
Does find himself at large I shall make sure
That we shall get along and round the lure
To make for good our desolation wrecked.

Till then, I have to see this act of feeding,
Whenever due to stitch my wound up bleeding.

17:07 GMT Sunday July 13, 1997