In The Jungle, The Concrete Jungle

The toothless old lion sits on a street corner.

No one knows that he’s a lion, or at least had been one, once upon a time. Wrapped up in a ratty old blanket and a fatigue jacket that’s as badly faded as he is, he’s nearly indistinguishable from any of the innumerable other lost souls sitting on street corners in the new concrete jungle. Propped up in the lion’s lap is a sign: Will Work For Food.

A woman comes up to him, fierce as any lioness. She looks down at him scornfully.

“Don’t you have any pride?” she asks.

“Not any more,” the lion says.

He taps the sign.

She walks away, disgusted.