The Vicar's Sterile Donkeys Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

A donkey who was eating grass
is called by local farmers ASS.
I took a fancy to a male
this poem will now tell the tale.

The local Vicar owned some land
the soil was clay with mixed-in sand.
The grass did please the vicar's critters
but not his twenty sterile shitters.

You see, a donkey can and will
eat seeds and greens to get his fill.
He looks quite normal in most ways
though shiftiness befalls his gaze.

With lust he gawks at horse and pony
aware that he's a real phony.
But through a quirk of Nature's laws
he's smitten with some fatal flaws.

And that, my eager little reader
allows no ass to be a breeder.
All horses, cows and wildebeests
just do enjoy their solemn feasts

and pay no mind to eunuch's calls,
who do not worship useless balls.
For those who know a little more
about these critters and their lore

you'd notice that all donkeys tend
to hover near that schizoid bend
which does result from utter frust,
caused by an impotence of lust.

Plain English calls it being cranky
as donkeys can't play hanky-panky.
I knew all this, the man of God
had lectured me, with a small nod.

And, being kind, an altruist
who had been laid and often kissed
I had decided to spend much
of my spare time with him, a touch

of human love and frequent presence
unequalled by all local peasants.
I trained the fellow how to sit,
and where to take a leak and shit.

He learned quite easily but could
recall not much of what he should,
the brain inside that big boned head
seemed very sleepy, maybe dead.

So, I changed tactics and began
to implement a clever plan.
I'd train the donkey now to race
from my old farm to Byron's place.

At night, of course so none would know
and we'd be ready for the show
when folks came from the smallest towns
to watch the circus with its clowns

and see the produce from the farms,
then wrestle with their sunburned arms
but what they all had come to see
was horses racing from the tree

that ancient willow near the lake,
the winner then would take the cake.
The distance was two miles and back
three dozen horses lined the track.

I mounted Hector, now his name
and whispered that eternal shame
would here befall not us, oh no,
by now my donkey was a pro.

The starting pistol sounded loudly
the two of us departed proudly.
The snickering came to my ears
yet windspeed now produced some tears

in Hectors eyes and mine as well,
we went like flying bats from Hell!
Half way to the big turnaround
my donkey dropped me on the ground.

I sat there, shattered were my dreams
when he returned, among the screams
and picked me up with one quick scoop
I think by then we led the group.

Needless to say, we won, (two length) ,
the judge admired Hector's strength
and praised the animal's IQ
because he knew just what to do!

'To dropp that hunk of German lard
was a decision only hard
and clever thinking could provide,
you gained such speed and won the ride.'

There was no etiquette or rule
that could find fault with any fool
who'd figure out a way to win
And Hector stood there, with his grin.

He'd shown them all, the upper classes
that in this world, quite often asses
will master a peculiar task.
It works that way, so do not ask.