The Dairy Air

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.