I love the red cow
with all of my heart.
She’s gentle when pulling
my cherry-red cart.
We take her rich milk
and swallow it down.
With nothing, it’s white,
with chocolate brown.
When she grows too feeble
to give us fresh cream,
we’ll slit her red throat,
hang her from a beam,
and pull out her insides
to throw to the dogs,
just as we do
when we slaughter the hogs.
We’ve now owned six cows
that I can remember.
We drain them and gut them,
skin and dismember,
package and label them,
and stock up the freezer.
We all love beefsteak —
from baby to geezer!
Tossed on the grill,
the bloody steaks sputter.
As a last, grateful tribute,
so humble we stutter,
we offer up thanks
with a reverent mutter –
then slather her chops
with her own creamy butter.
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