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My country is a jungle

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.