Banana cream pie; no one should wonder why my crew is named the talking monkeys. Feces and green vines; another day in the jungle, last nights moon cry already forgotten. Its better than being man who has fallen with just an apple. We monkeys prefer mangos. Fleas try to escape the grimy finger nails of my tree mate, and he shall feast every day as long as he sticks with me. Strange it is, putting dinner on the table just letting nature take its course. My blood be holy; monkey fur be the temple for the lord of the fleas. They drink to their health and my tree mates stomach never goes empty. Feces will always be around so that we can give humans the monkey shitface. Mangos and apples, fleas and blood; its the holy jungle, I'm up in the trees mans down below- he can talk and walk and we can swing. Its good to be a monkey. Always lucky when you got the secret jungle keys, and of course- fur full'o'fleas.