Classic Poem

The Oxen gathered on a day,
Resolving how at once to slay
The Butchers — men whose trade to them
It seemed but natural to condemn.
When one, the chief in gravity,
Arose, a bold and bovine Nestor:
" Though these same Butchers, " stated he,
" Us even unto death do pester,
They slaughter us with skilful knives
And little pain — our wretched lives
Would be more wretched with such satyrs
As less experienced operators,
Who'd gash and hack and choke our breath
And keep us half the day in dying —
And that would be a double death.
For surely there is no denying,
Though Butchers perished, 'tis our grief
That men will never lack for beef. "

MORAL

This evil world is full of tricks,
And life itself's a pretty fix —
Our luck consists in clearing out
By what's the least protracted route.