Unsung, low dung, far flung.
So, ol’ Bessy sings her blues,
Chews her cud, worries not
How she did or dudn’t do.
Her paddies bakin’ in the sun.
The flies fly about as they must.
And somewhere there inside the pie
A fungal ideation is born.
And yes, out of that languid poo
May some bloom arise,
That can be praised, damned
Or even plagiarized.
So may she gain some herdly praise
As off she goes again to graze
Among the lea’s brown scraggle.
It isn’t much, but she ain’t picky.
At eventide to home she’ll roam
Where there in the dense dusk
She dimly waits in the cool stall
To be milked again.
poetastrophy 