Not Horse, Nor Vache, Nor Ass

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 
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 
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
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. 

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