The head of the jungle, aim it’s throat high
to taste the rays of the burning lamp;
Standing on it’s pride rock in sigh
bragging and bragged and sit on his throne
melting it’s salty wine, on shoulders of his throne
And like the tooth of a knife chewing green papers
the led chisels the head from it resting pillow
with their clamoring presence;
and with a red wine eyes, the lion utters
why interrupt my head from it pillow?
the tortoise step out and read out their bleeding wounds
“Little hyenas has strike” they outtered
the lion deep his eyes into the flock of mountain
deep it’s hands into their wounds and bumped back into his throne
claiming to nail the little, when it strike again, when it strike!
The sun drive into the soil
and at dawn, it leap at the back of the sky; in glamour
yet again and again the flock clamor, and clamor
Clamoring! “The wounds are bleeding deeper”
The lion hopped from it’s pride era’s
and hike for miles encountering the little hyenas;
His heart boomed off his chest like a rocket
for he sees the once little hyenas has touched the sky
taller than the mountains
His voice has traveled far from it mouth
set it wheels not before the gun boomed
and zoomed in pace, hike more than time
with it roar melted
like the snow that beat it chest against summer
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