Many Lions

The hot African sun
Rises on a brand new day,
Nightly prowlers on the run,
The Kings stir in a sheltered cay.

Mighty roars and gaping yawns,
Accompany the prides awaking.
Today the hunt is on,
Some poor beasts unmaking.

The lioness heads off,
Over the hill, looking out on the plains
A herd of zebra grazes farther off,
The lions stomach loudly complains.

Into grass the same color as their fur,
Turing them into deadly ghosts.
Hunting all day long, avoiding the African cur,
To feed the Royal hosts.

The chase is on,
The kill is made,
And it's quickly set upon,
While the fiery sun fades.