THE MULE

The mule remains a very fine and sturdy beast. As a hybrid any mule must flop around, of course, and, of course, any and every mule gets its kicks. The other day a mule dared to come up to me and to begin to nibble at one of my ears, which are salient. I soon was turning, muleward, an alternative cheek. That mule itself had shown sufficient big cheek, I'll say.
One thing I really might wonder about mules has something to do with their actual intellects. Are mules devastatingly able, upstairs; that is: can your average mule decipher a text such as this, then completely expectorate the entire sad thing while seeming likely to be simultaneously accepting and non-excepting toward about any and every kind of outcome?
As an answerer of all queries I'll demonstrate my own perhaps all too mulish alacrities. Purposes indeed are porpoises; mules are disguised donkeys; the asinine forever will be chomping on bits of beauteous arsenic. Let me not snicker, incidentally! A rather new juxtaposing will juxtapose a rather new set of nice or half-nice juxtapositions. Meanwhile: let's be wary lest asses and horses (steeds and mere donkeys) fail to mate. Should such failure ever transpire lengthily, the world's flow of events might seem too inexorably altered, gelded, and circumscribed. A very dependent nexus may be the ways in which any hominy harmony can be munched, then might become swallowed. In any and every mule may be a stomach able to rehandle both complete bran and the full sinisterness of infinitudes.