Gather round, children, and I'll tell you a tale
Of a mule and the hope that he carries.
No diamond hitch, pack saddle or trail
Weighed on that mule like the gold he'd seen buried.
When still but a foal, he'd left dam and sire
For life with a drunken prospector.
Into the foothills and Italy Pass, higher
The pair climbed with canned food and a metal detector.
The Sierra rose high above talus-strewn walls
A still blue lake full of trout lay below.
Pines lined the trailside, where gold eagles called
And the mule kept his young eye on the crow.
One fine day- bonanza! A thick vein of ore
Fell open before the old man's pick.
He danced with the mule, then hit the bar door
And came back two days older and three times as sick.
He spent his last days picking for treasure
And digging to hide wealth beneath stone
'Til some bad homemade whiskey, drunk in full measure
Stilled the old man, leaving the young mule alone.
Dead man and live mule were finally found
By some packers bringing tourists to spectate.
The prospector they left to rot above ground
Beneath an aulde-looking tombstone marked with an earlier date.
Now the mule carries children, mothers, lawyers and such
To Italy Pass, filled with pine, history and bear
But he still has his dream of the gold, not too much,
But it hold's a drunk's fortune which he's eager to share.
BONANZA, n. A rich lode of metal ore, or any rich discovery easily traded for cheap liquor and low companions.
Happy birthday, Brer Mule!
Update: Jenn's birthday wish for Mule made me nostalgic. Y'all remember this?