<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=390473" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Milking Time</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Across the fields, at close of day, <br>When mists fall low, and the skies are grey, <br>The cows with solemn slowness plod, <br>Homeward, through oozing, squelching sod, <br>And into gleaming cubicles across the road, <br>Await the release of their 'precious' load.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Of course, they cannot have realised, <br>That their'contents' end up being sterilised, <br>Sold in plastic bottles of varying sizes, <br>Or in cartons on which a firm advertises<br>The healthy benefits of natural milk. <br>Which slips down the throat, as smooth as silk.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Cows are the most beautiful creatures, <br>Have you, at any time, studied their features, <br>Their huge big eyes with lashes flattering, <br>And lusty tails, that are constantly battering<br>Their rear ends, keeping the flies at bay.<br>My admiration for them, I would like to convey.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">We tend not to notice them behind their walls, <br>Chained securely to their milking stalls, <br>Each day, producing milk to fill our fridges, <br>While continually being pestered by scores of midges.<br>Poor souls! When next time you buy your milk by the quart, <br>Of these charming creatures, 'Please, Please give a thought! '.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Ernestine+Northover">Ernestine Northover</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=390473" data-title="Milking Time de Ernestine Northover" data-description="Across the fields, at close of day, When mists fall low, and the skies are grey, The cows with solemn slowness plod, Homeward, through oozing, squelching sod, And into gleaming cubicles across the road, Await the release of their 'precious' l..."></div> </div> </div>

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