‘Moo, moo,’ said the cow to the donkey,

‘You are a queer hornless beast.

Selfish man needs only your labour for money

‘Cause your right place you have missed.’

‘Oh obstinate specimen of the mule,

Your place is with the monkey,

And not to stay with men of rule,

There to rest with the bee that makes honey.’

The donkey stirred himself so high,

And lifted up his stupendous head to the sky,

As if to lodge a personal complaint

To his Maker against Man the sly.

A moment of calmness ran through his nerve,

And he to his companion said ‘For a purpose each is created

Mine is to exert energy and to serve,

Yours to be loved and elevated.’

‘Whatever my lot is, I am content

For I chose to have my finger in no one's pudding.

In my Maker, I am confident,

My labour shall have an ending.’

‘Remember, the slaughter house is your final place of torture

And your carcass to man is meat.

But mine belongs only to the vulture,

And each has to serve under man's feet.’