(A deep sigh) It’s not the cage that gets you. It’s the memory of the sky.

(Singing softly, almost to himself, a recitative) Every chase had a thrill... Every corner, a thrill... Now the motion is still... He tries to give a signature sly grin, but it’s a broken, fragile thing that doesn't reach his eyes. He looks at his tail, which is completely limp on the floor. The others watch him, mesmerized by this uncharacteristic vulnerability.

The tail that I'd wag at a perfectly-planned zig and a zag... It hangs like a rag... Life's been a cell.