Introduction

I was born and raised in the hills, about thirty miles from Kansas City, during the fifties and early sixties. It was a far cry from the metropolitian ways of the big city. It was a world of tough chores and mature responsibilites. It was a great life........

Ode To A Missouri Mule

As a country boy up in the hills,
life was tough, not much for frills.
I remember it well, yes even now,
when spring time came, and it was time to plow.

Afore sun up came, I was out of bed,
and pulled the harness down in the shed.
Then to the barn, for that dreadful chore,
to battle that four legged man-of-war

A Missouri mule named Jezebel,
a demonic fiend that was spawned in hell.
She was lucifer's daughter, to the say the least.
(That's a compliment for that retched beast.)

While I woke her up and got her fed,
she'd give me a look that would spook the dead.
I knew right then there would be a fight,
just to plow up mama's garden site.

So I hitched her up, set a goodly pace,
when her tail whipped out, right across my face.
You gotta watch out, as a general rule.
When you're at the south end of a north bound mule.

Made a sharp left turn, and sunk that plow,
wondering what that monster was up to now.
When she lifts her tail with a beastial flair,
and the field's consumed by exploding air.

With a stench of hell and fermented hay,
I knew I'd kill that mule today.
I swear I saw that jackass smile,
while I choked on those fumes, so vile.

But you gota be tough, as a general rule,
at the south end of a north bound mule.

So I turned my plow, got around the bend,
that's when she started up again.
She let go a noxious blast,
near thirty seconds it seemed to last.

Well I had my fill of that horrid witch,
so I smacked her hard with a willow switch.
When I thought that took her down a peg,
she bit a chunk, clean outa my leg.

Spurtin' blood like a stupid fool,
at the south end of a north bound mule.

It was living hell along that route,
trying to handle that repugnant brute.
She would give me first a read-ward glance,
then a blast of old mule flatulence.

If I'd had an axe, I'd have done her in,
cause I got stepped on time and time again.
Got bit four times, left bloody and hurt,
she even spewed manure on my best plowing shirt.

It's been forty years but I remember that fight,
with her wicked ways and her nasty bite.
And I hope old Jezzy went to jackass hell,
for what she dished out, she'll do quite well.

But for me, I took a solemn vow;
these hand would never touch another plow.
So I joined the Army, but to my alarm,
I met more jackasses there,
than down on the farm!

Yet plows and mules still give me the chills,
from that horrid event, up in them hills.
Cause you gotta be a machocist and a gol-durn fool,
to get behind a Missouri plowin' mule.

Copyright; Fred Moore
Email: fjmoore@hotmail.com