the plopping gumboots,
on a muddy trail,
by the byre;
where cow\'s swat tails,
and frail calves are dire;
for their mothers milk.
the smell of muck,
fresh and aged.
the calves might survive;
with some luck,
good milk is all required,
so feed them full;
till their knees,
at least they will make;
a good beef.
a cow slipped;
on a freshly laid dung,
and she afflicted;
a fracture in her pelvis,
without a moment\'s thought,
and not a shred of doubt,
she was packed off;
to the slaughterhouse.
the fresh dairy air,
ever calm and tranquil,
hides the smell of blood;
and the untold cruelty,
of the cows that succumbed;
to our foolhardy whims.