The crocodile cries, I'm told.  I don't know.
I try to stay away from the things.  It puts
On a suit and points fingers at others.
It's outraged, it says, by the carnage it sees,
As it uses its feet to push bodies of victims
Of various wars it has started or financed
Beneath every table and chair in the room.
All of its toadies declare it respectable.
Nobody dares to admit what it is:
An implacable carnivore, savage and ugly.
I try to steer clear of the things.