The weasels run, a mighty herd
Of charging little beasts.
They're waiting on King Weasel
To call them to their feast.
King weasel rubs his bristly chin,
Intending to deceive;
The weasel crowd bends to its knee,
Determined to believe.
The weasels, like the red brigade,
Will cleanse all other thought;
The land will run with bloodshed
From heretics they have caught.
The weasels run the country,
Storming homes and totally crazed;
We cattle lie and chew our cud:
A few look on amazed.
The weasels run the hillsides,
But the valleys run with blood.
The weasels run with glaring eyes;
The cattle chew their cud.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem