There is an animal, It is not of much use. It rarely gets to the point And is doomed to be Boring and obtuse. It is not a beast of burden Who will carry a load; Its hooves are prone to split And it gives up the ghost Too easily on the road. It is not vache will her Udders full of rich dairy cream Nor horse to be ridden Or to pull a thick tree. It's back breaks quite easy Its soul burns with shame And it always finds another To burden and blame. It won't write you a fancy Sonnet or two And can't even compose a Two step or sweet Symphony in blue. Though you might find it Helpful if you have Something to kill But for most useful Purposes It is a pure waste of Pig swill. It will let you down easy And ride you quite hard You might find it kicking A straw bale mindlessly around a messy farm yard. In its presence the ass Isn't spared its blushes and The horse whinnies in fear, The vache merely flicks A fly behind one long Tender ear When it sees that pure Beast roll in the mud And wrestle with swine To heat up its own blood. Behold: the ordinary man Reasonably tame and rather Too fond of a fried piece of Chicken or a good solid Baked honey ham. He hasn't much of a brain, And is filled up with spite. His feral wild brothers Stay out of his sight. The women all swoon When they pick up his scent, And dance in the moon As they pray that he is Safely bent. He hasn't a care because He hasn't a brain He hasn't a conscience And is full of petty judgement Of others souls' pain. He fails to feel much of Anything but his own Coddled desires. And when he is befuddled In front of the unadorned Truth He burns up in its fire. He is denied the fruits of His ego: that ultimate Hype-man and liar Who tells him he is a stud Instead of a rotund And sexless little friar. He works all his life And he resents every Minute He hates his wife And his mother, like Some village idiot He doesn't quite live And does not know How to die And fails to see his own Uselessness then have The decency to Break down and cry. I am not a horse, nor a Vache nor an ass - I can sometimes be a mule With my heels stuck in the grass I'll do what I want and I want To be me In all my bloody female Superiority. I know one thing and it is A belief that's stuck fast: I am glad I am not an Ordinary beastly man With his head Stuck up his own Fatal impasse.