Ode From The Friesian Churn

My darling Buttercup, how fine though art,
Your beauty so refined, your charm so rare,
For though youíre not renowned for being smart,
In all Creation none can match your stare.

You stand entranced in yonder clover field
And gaze magnetically; I feel your pull,
I try to draw away but I must yield
And creep towards you, spellbound, like a bull.

Your nose is big and black and always wet,
Your grace reflects in every moo-ve you make,
I always feel a morsel of regret
And think of you when I eat beef, Miss Steak.

The farmer treats you awfully, my pet,
Youíre outside in most every kind of weather,
But not to worry, Iíll ask my Aunt Bet
To knit a jersey to protect your leather.

Youíll wear that, but youíll never wear my ring
Because weíre worlds apart, but Iíll be true,
Iíll never even think of marrying,
And never have no udder love but moo.

[This was written for a punning competition. Sadly the judges didnít like it as much as I did.]

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