Letter to Mr. president with animals attached, for his macro-zoo known as a Presidential
House

Your Excellency, the President of the Res-publica, as you will see:

This one surpluses, as S of Somoza and will always surplus. As for earthquake life and other cracks on the front’s wax. I had to abandon everything, here I am now, working the land from sun to sun, from moon to moon, and by the way: Where are our lands? We know that your land is exactly 6 feet underground, Mr. president. This Lion I send you, king of the jungle, they say; I hope there are no arguments between the two, my dear president. This gorilla that I send you, the poor one has heard people saying that you are the king of the gorillas, I warn you not to throw me to play La Tercia with her, because you are going to have your little gorilla, my dear president. This monkey they send you, imagine, is just like you: pure picture, pure picture. But do not worry, Mr. President Somoza, we will make sure that your tail grows too.
This parrot that I send you, my dear president: blah blah blah, equals you, my dear president. And
be careful with your state secret, and the state of your secret, because this parrot, green, Mr. President, function as a historical tape recorder. So be very careful!

This zebra I send you, doesn’t it look like a horse? But believe me it is a zebra of pure race, just like you, my dear president. I do not send you a dog or a pig, or a nice cross between a pig and a dog, because you have enough of these animals in your house, starting with you. This red and black little bird that I send you can’t live in a cage.

Because he’s in a single flight for free people, my dear president. But just in time you will have news of this little red and black bird, my dear president. So don’t be tempted to prescribe slow fire on any volcano, as you did with Tejada, my dear president. Precisely because it suffers from roots of fire, and any of these days we will erupt, my dear president.

I beg your pardon, as I didn’t send you a swan, my dear president. Rubén Darío’s asking: Why there’s no swan here, Mr. President? But I want you to know, my dear, that I, like the swan, sing, and I will always sing before I die, my dear president.