This mule ain’t from Moscow, this mule ain’t from the South,
But this mule’s got some learning – mostly from mouth to mouth.
This mule could be called stubborn and lazy.
But in a clever sort of way, this mule’s been
waiting and planning,
And working – in seclusion – for a sacred kind of day.
the day when burning sticks – or crosses – is not mere child’s play.
but a madman in his most incandescent bloom whose loveless soul,
Is imperfection in its most lustrous bloom.
Stand fast, old mule, soothe in contemplation,
Thy burning hole and aching thigh.
That your stubbornness is of the living
And cruel anxiety is about to die.
Stand fast young old mule. Stand fast.
