They might look like big cats from way up here,

Kings of the jungle, the lords of all they survey,

a roar so loud that it can be heard across five miles of open

scrubland and all who perch by the dwindling pool,

sucking up

precious water, live in fear of the noise that travels far

and in terror of what lurks beneath the stillness.

They are not Kings, lords, unless of misrule,

they are though beasts, savage and bloodthirsty

cock-sure and baying for the blood of an innocent,