What sort of a nation
Is it, my poor dead man?
Oh, the mighty old land
Where we exist in songs.
Why did you die so early,
My dear muddy ones?
Their songs were too sweet
Their stories too distant.
What were you when alive,
The one killed in the forest?
Once a hunter-gatherer
With our tribal codes
Hunted without fun
For it was what we did.
And you, the ones
Who took his own life?
Caked in thick mud
Smelled of manure
Could read the sky
But knew not well
The world of speculation.
What sort of a nation
Have they made now?
A mighty known nation
Where children hate the sun
The moon is feared
Where people laugh
When they are told
A great coloured nation
Where poets are obedient
Their verses are stamped
That sort of a mighty nation
Where everyone is erudite
Yet can't tell the smell of mud
Were children are incubated
So they can see the high rise
That sort of a wealthy nation
Where the erudite millions
Sing the great nation songs
If possible, even in sleep.
In such a great nation
Its erudite millions think
The forests are too thick
The sun is too hot
The moon is just a glow
The stars are too distant
Its good many children
No longer laugh
Its good many people
No longer sleep
Its good famous poets
Talk more, write none.
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