The
crocodiles in the corridor
They
find the land a good harvest
They
smell the meat in every hole
They
don't want to go home
The
crocodiles on two legs
They
speak a language
It
is money nothing else
In
every handshake and smile
The
firemen can't rope the crocodiles
The
people can shout and complain
But
nothing will come to the aid
The
police will stay away
The
crocodiles in the corridor
They
joined forces to protect each other
The
land of opportunities
They
will not go willingly
It
is the people who decide
Cross
them out in the poll
Let
the crocodiles get nailed
Over
the small simmering fire
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