In a cozy tree beyond colleagues’ horizon
And at the peak of this tree
With his claws fixed in the flesh of the trunk
He sits and clasps his hands at his back
With microscopic eye he scans the whole world
He whistles and chickens run for safety
On his brow, an inscription is boldly emblazoned
“No dangerous dance before my eye
My spear is poisonous and knows no mercy”
He doesn’t wait for war to invite him
He pays visit when he isn’t being invited
I will descend to have my share of the booties
My spear never fails whenever I swoop
I will war for the sake of my tree.
His manner is a disgrace to our hideouts
Oh! When would He equal him to us?
And his Sequoia be cut at the grassroots
Democratically (any means in this case)
That chickens can freely move like a hare after night rain?