Classic Poem

Unhappy , I observe the Ass,
Who browses placidly on grass,
Or bits of wood he will devour,
While e'ndash the prickly thistle-flower
Is spicing for his garden-sass.

Last night that lovely golden mass
She called a " rarebit " proved but brass;
And life I gaze at through a sour
Unhappy eye.

And as this sleepless night I pass,
I learn that he who has, alas!
An ass's judgment for his dower
May lack the beast's digestive power.
Oh, miserie! All flesh is grass!