The old donkey, at his prayers,
Ignores his betters, those brayers.
His missal is the alphabet,
Which he hasn’t quite mastered yet.
His teachers wield a paddle of wood
That stings him like gold donkey flies
When he don’t learn his lessons good,
Like mistaking his “Green” for “Ice.”
“Might not the Pupil know more?”
We all wonder, “perhaps his ass?”
His brothers honk a mocking snore
And let a mephitic cloud pass.
The pupil thinks, They will be damned,
But first I need my cranium crammed.
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