A kiss is a bite; a hug is a
fight,
A handshake is a bet; our
existence is a gamble,
Mr. Eagle dwells atop the
rock watching over us,
The eaglets prowl the streets
spying on us,
Their vulture friends sing
and dance alleluia
Round the rock,
And every Wednesdays they
assemble to share the
Milk of the bleeding national
cow,
Their weaver bird friends
sing their praises
With voices cracked by soured
wine of the Eagle king
And his hyena bodyguards,
Their squirrel friends pray
for them, eat their food,
And come to the public like
Pontus Pilate,
My country is a Jungle
The grass is too rough for
the goats: they want fresh fish,
The bone is too hard for the
lions; they want milk and honey,
The barking dogs have their
tails cut,
The rampaging elephants got
their testicles broken,
The parrots have their throat
cut,
Yet, Mr. Eagle and his
entourage fly round the world
Singing alleluia about this
jungle
Where life is sorrow and
death is a feast.
©2011
Posts
