I asked the mule just yesterday
Whether he ever envies the bay
Who burrows her soft, brown nose in the oats
Laid out for her pleasure, to brighten her coat.

The mule responded, with just a hint of chagrin,
“I know nothing of the world or the way I should live;
There are others who tell me this for my own good, thus:
My life is blissfully simple, yet lush—

“Lush,” he continued, while he swatted the flies
Gathered round his muddy coat and panicked eyes,
“Lush is my life that they make so secure:
By bringing me down, they make me demure.

“And,” he concluded, with a wheezing sigh,
“It’s for my own good that I’m covered with flies,
And for the good of the people that the bay gets the oats,
While I struggle and toil catching flies with my coat.”

I meant to ask the mule again
On the issue of his grievous chagrin,
But a crowd led the keening bay out of her stall,
And the world stopped to answer her demanding call.