The young donkey, at his prayers,
Ignores his brothers, those brayers.
His missal is the alphabet,
Which he hasn’t quite mastered yet.
His master wields a paddle of wood
That stings him like a donkey fly
When he don’t learn his lessons good,
Like mistaking his “U” for “Y.”
“Might not the Pupil know more?”
Nickers Master, “Just his ‘as’s?’”
The 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.
