Now the crocodile is in his coffin, his peers will gather for a eulogy of manufactured sorrow.
They’ll say he was a great man even if they know he wasn’t. They’ll proclaim him an enlightened leader though they’d rather have led themselves.
His widow will be showered with kind words of compassion but none of his peers will honestly miss him.
In all likelihood, they’re already plotting the next coup, a politicide on a new generation of hungry wolves.
In this trade, survival is the name of the game. By all means possible.
And they’re all sure they’ll live forever.
But in the end a crocodile is just a handbag in waiting.
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