Farming

A poem where a farmer confronts one of his cattle.

Farming

 

 

I had watched many family farms,

Suddenly sold and then disappear,

Built on hard honest sweaty work,

Their love for farm-land was clear.

 

No funnier is the story adventures,

I have been jokingly privilege told.

Insurrection was the heifer’s name,

This preachy cagey bovine so bold.

 

She’d climb to the top of the mow,

Then she would cackle like a crow,

Gave a quiet herd lengthy sermons,

Who listened to her intense bunco.

 

It had upset the gathering animals,

The concise speeches felt adverse,

A bawl-regime kept on summoning,

Her consorts of an imminent curse.

 

Her accord became a hefty revolt,

Plan was move her to another pen,

To quell those mutiny crisis bawls,

Before she’d influence them again.

 

To my astonishment I’d observed,

With my uncertain eyes saw there,

Fifteen layers high was that heifer,

Top of the hay-pile without a care.

 

As the farmer climbed to confront,

Warily with his fork named trusty,

Ignoring his impending advances,

She continued eating being crusty.

 

The farmer gave a tap on her butt,

Come-on heifer, said a soft voice,

His attempts did fall unanswered,

To convince her of the bad choice.

 

His commands kept getting louder,

The butt-taps increasingly stronger,

Finally there’s glorious recognition,

She can’t withstand him any longer.

 

Down she left the podium of truth,

The farmer sighed in a great relief,

The Herefords had lost their cleric,

He said Amen Rejoice to the chief.

 

March-11-2013 by Quilled_Penman©Glen King