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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required 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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