The new mule barn was once a country church
The congregation, prospering, sold for lumber
And built a fine one. Now the red mules lurch
And sway from side to side in rhythmic slumber
In stalls constructed of converted pews
With all the drowsy rectitude of deacons
Who half awaken, now and then, to muse
On places where the pastor’s sermon weakens.
A portly pigeon occupies the rafter
Exhorting with admonitory mien
And mules emerge immediately after
He ends with faces unctuously serene
To testify that they have seen the light—
Though still inclined at time to kick and bite
–From Because It’s Here (written in 1949?)