Ode to the Donkey’s Dignified Rear.

Oh, the proud donkey’s posterior, round and brown,

A crescent moon of twilight, softly drawn,

With tufts of tail to swat the flies that prowl,

And muscles taut as a farmer’s plow.

 

Each step it takes, a testament to might,

A gluteal marvel, steady through the night,

Bearers of burdens, both bale and bale,

Yet none deny—their gravity’s tale.

 

In meadows wide, where wild thyme takes root,

It rests, a throne of sinew, calm and slight,

The sun may glint on strands of russet hair,

But none deny its claim to fame—right there.

 

Yet jesters mock what nature wisely made—

That sculpted sphere, by time and terrain shaped,

To kick when chased, to stand with stubborn grace,

A quiet force, no need for face.

 

For in its curve, a humor lies, profound,

A jest the world has spun around, unbound.

But know this truth: where mirth and might align,

The donkey’s pride still shines—both form and spine.

 

So let it roam, that symbol of the earth,

A hymn to strength, to toil, to mirth.

For every butt, in its own right,

Holds galaxies—of stubborn light.