Dale A. Schreiber (b. 1924)
There was a man who drove his mule
A little faster to get cool.
As breezes played across his face,
He whipped her to a quicker pace.
Because the day was extra hot,
He broke the beast into a trot.
He laid it on her with her switch,
And she dropped dead, there in a ditch.
I asked, "How come your mule is dead?"
"I think she froze to death," he said.
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