The Lame Donkey

Long, long ago, in days of old,no motorcar had ever rolled.

Slow oxen, donkeys, horses drewthe creaking carts the country through.

So, humming through a golden day,a farmer headed Frankfurt’s way,

with timber felled, a heavy load,his donkey plodding down the road.

Where Urselbach goes rippling by,an inn for breakfast caught his eye,

as was the custom, old and true;the donkey thought: “Then I will too!”

And so he basked, sun on his hide;the farmer soon stepped back outside,

for he had little time to spare;the city still lay far from there.

The donkey didn’t care a jot;he thought: “I’ll stay right on this spot,

and even if the rafters creak,I’ll lie here in the sun all week!”

They tugged his ears, they urged him forth,they swung his tail from south to north;

the donkey bore it all the same,because his leg was hurt and lame.

No hope was left, no hope at all;they dragged the donkey to the stall;

there on the hay and straw he stood,and for the first time, life was good.

With lame old bones he stayed, my friend,for many weeks, until his end.

The farmer came, his heart distressed,and laid him in the field to rest.

The lame grey donkey now was gone,and yet his name lived on and on.

And since that day, the inn, with pride,is called “Zum Lahmen Esel”, far and wide.