Part I:

There were carabaos in a three box rice field,
They are all wearing a ragged straw hat;
While tilling and plowing and planting --
It with rice to the gray and hard mud puddle.
The smell of rusty iron punches the nose,
And nothing they can do but snort out disgust.
For the hard mud puddle perfumed --
By a carcass calluses and some worn out sweat --
Is the ingredient -- a fertilizer -- essential for its growth.

They race with their breaths --
Zooming and vrooming --
As if horses galloping hard --
In the plain racing track.
While the owner of the state with his head high and grinning,
With his hands a sting ray tail, he scourge repetitively under the shining suave sun.
A cigar in his mouth -- oozes a crimson brimstone smoke.

The owner of the farm exclaimed, "Give blood or lose blood!"
That a tyrannous and ominous voice echoed to the plains,
Then reverberates back from the green hills, from the mountains;
Where tall trees and green grasses are the witness of --
The luxurious life they had in that farm, where they bend --
Their backs to kiss the mud puddle as they huddled --
To eat their delicious lunch in the void meadows;
Where winds jeered on them and mock on them for their precious lives.
"Wow!...