Sing the blues over the princes of Israel.
Say: What a lioness was your mother among lions! She crouched in a pride of young lions. Her cubs grew large.
She reared one of her cubs to maturity, a robust young lion. He learned to hunt. He ate men.
Nations sounded the alarm. He was caught in a trap. They took him with hooks and dragged him to Egypt.
When the lioness saw she was luckless, that her hope for that cub was gone, She took her other cub and made him a strong young lion.
He prowled with the lions, a robust young lion. He learned to hunt. He ate men.
He rampaged through their defenses, left their cities in ruins. The country and everyone in it was terrorized by the roars of the lion.
The nations got together to hunt him. Everyone joined the hunt. They set out their traps and caught him.
They put a wooden collar on him and took him to the king of Babylon. No more would that voice be heard disturbing the peace in the mountains of Israel!
Here's another way to put it: Your mother was like a vine in a vineyard, transplanted alongside streams of water, Luxurious in branches and grapes because of the ample water.
It grew sturdy branches fit to be carved into a royal scepter. It grew high, reaching into the clouds. Its branches filled the horizon, and everyone could see it.
Then it was ripped up in a rage and thrown to the ground. The hot east wind shriveled it up and stripped its fruit. The sturdy branches dried out, fit for nothing but kindling.
Now it's a stick stuck out in the desert, a bare stick in a desert of death,
Good for nothing but making fires, campfires in the desert. Not a hint now of those sturdy branches fit for use as a royal scepter! (This is a sad song, a text for singing the blues.)