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What would makes a dead ass belly moves
And scream and grunt in a boy's imagination
The ass was dead vultures presence proves
And flies abuzz add crude to consternation
           And we in fragile school days state
           Look, saw, and lost or broken slate
           From fear the animal grunting in pain
           Would chase our hearts out against the strain

Clarence had a good hand, our best Tarazan
He and Derrick armed with missile stones
Attacked first the beast, and buzzards ran
And flies cloud the air, while the donkey groans
           And grunt and shiver in its belly
           Oozing rotten scent miles and miles
           The stones hit hard and sank into jelly
           My trembling frame still now recoils.

The donkey lift its head, and books were strewn
And screams were heard, and feet thundering away
And some fell by haste, but not yet in swoon
Wait upon the gorging of their unbridled dismay
            But brave Clarence, stood despite our fleet
            And hit, and hit again the dead ass daring
            To defeat our sensible and hasty retreat
            Was this a new demon? Something in tradition missing?

For many had heard, and some even would swear
There was a rolling calf, a demon shaped like a little cow
But myth nor custom told of rolling donkey nowhere
What dark at was then flung against us children now
              For we are the outcome of our beliefs, and we
              And from tradition's soil we take our mold
              Each in his custom his boundary carry
              Children's fear are the superstition of the old

I know this now, but not that moment then
Until I see the pigs through the anus gorged out wide
Fleeing, and grunting their fear with ours to blend
Their dismay our innocent stupidity to deride
               Yes, it was only the pigs at lunch inwards
               Feasting safely from our eyes. But we
               Afraid of signs, ignorance made us cowards
               Safer in truth, but, O, vulnerable in our fancy.
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