Ode From The Friesian Churn


My darling Buttercup, how fine though art,
Your beauty so refined, your charm so rare,
For though you’re 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,
You’re outside in most every kind of weather,
But not to worry, I’ll ask my Aunt Bet
To knit a jersey to protect your leather.

You’ll wear that, but you’ll never wear my ring
Because we’re worlds apart, but I’ll be true,
I’ll never even think of marrying,
And never have no udder love but moo.

[This was written for a punning competition. Sadly the judges didn’t like it as much as I did.]

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