***
The death’s dog Boss with his entire nation
repeats over and over again, “There’s no money,
there’s no budget, there’s nothing to guzzle,
the country dried up, the war is rumbling
on the border, we are a country as small as
a splinter, the wretches of the world steal us,
carry on being hungry, the day will come back,
take your large intestine in the hand, cogitate
before you snuff it because for the misfortune
to supervene on you out of the blue is horrible
and for a putrid canine tooth to fall down
to the innermost depth is horrific, too
you should eat but you keep barking
and I advise you don’t suffer, the suffering
is not for the miserable you should bear it
even at risk of running out of the yellow
slobber it’s not normal for you to weep
next to your own grave, remember
you nasty little dog trust the big dog, put
your soul into his soul: the day will come back
you little nasty dogs you will be happy
but we will sleep tranquilly, I see you dashing
my countenance against your mirror with your
fangs. Are you trembling? Why? And all the recent
nation of the hunger is in your voracious stomach.”
But the little dogs that are listening to him
roll out of the wasteland and are heading
towards the left with the hunger and towards
the right with the thirst, they abstain from being
poor and they request milk from the dairy.
“The butcher is thinking about you, too!”
the Dog Boss spoke with an uvular R,
“Bury your fear.”
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