you know me - the donkey carts not
zebra - perhaps we can invent a word
parked along the sidewalks of Revolución
land of hard-sell shops and jumping bars
I ask with my soft brown eyes
eating my tray of donkey chow
"take your picture, Misses?" my man says
"only five, ten, twenty, frame extra..."
All my favorite tourists come to pose.
At night I go to sleep in canyons
beyond downtown, and my masters
wheel away this cart to garage or yard.
I am Zeburro - hear me roar!
Not. This hairstyle takes away my
desire to perform until they walk
me home and I see Jenny burro.
Once we made their traffic crash
by the park watching us hump
and not each other cars.