I'd always wanted a jungle son, a son who could talk to the animals and swing through the trees like a sharp knife through yesterday's butter. I gave my first born to the bears. They tore him to shreds. I gave my second to the wolves. They were worse than the bears. My third I gave to the monkeys, who took him in with long and open arms. Sadly they dealt him a fate worse than battered to death by wolves or bears. A boy raised amongst monkeys is a boy raised without discipline. A monkey man would never become prime minister. After my fourth son was eaten by a lion, my wife said enough was enough. It wasn't enough though, and I decided that the bears deserved a second chance, but my fifth son was dealt an even bloodier death than my first. It was at his funeral that I finally accepted that I would never father the king of the jungle.