Mulo Poem by robert dickerson

Margherita of Sant Angelo is my name-
My master master was five years mayor up in Porto;
From the yellow hills of Lazio my people come
two and three-quarters centuries ago.

Twice I've seen the Saint borne to Ameno
and I know each lift in the road to Epomeo;
My daughter's well and living in Fianno.
My Gianni died three vintages ago.

My scarlet headband's frayed, it's seen it's day.
The face in the cistern shows a silver chin.
Thirty winters on my withers weigh:
Just this harvest now we'll gather in

then to the noble grape goodbye I'm bidding
to relax and ponder all that I have seen,
God-willing, a while still-it's really only fitting-
My master was the mayor in this town.

Drop me down the gulch when I am dead
and let my bones crack and bleach in the sun:
I have known lords of blackguards made
and seen some very angels hurtled down.