SHORT; Humor: 2 Poems about: A 'Cultured' Sort of Cow
#1
What sort of cow gives cultured WHOLE milk?
I think Princess and cows of her ilk.
She has nary a crawling tick,
she does NOT her calves lick, (babies that is) ,
and, at our state fair she wins ribbons of silk.
#2
What sort of cow gives cultured fat free milk?
I think Princess and other cows of her ilk.
She buys, for her stall, pieces of art,
listens each evening to her Mozart,
and for the annual Dairy Ball……she dresses in SILK!
(Feb.2006)
poem by Bri Edwards
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Related quotes
Broremann The Farmhand
Broremann, the farmer worker.
Every morning at five thirty sharp, my brother Broremann
had to milk five cows by hand bring bucket full of goodness
to the scullery where maid sifted it and in a churn it went.
He had to start milking Rose first, she was the mother cow
other cows wouldn´t give milk unless he started with her.
After milking Broremann had to clean the barn five cows
make a lot of dung; he pushed it down in a hole in the wall
it was later used to fertilize the land. My brother was proud
of his ability to milk and his hands were, firm yet gentle.
There was a problem though Rose didn´t yield as much milk
as before as she was getting elderly and the farmer sold her
to the knacker’s yard. It was a sad day and the other cows
mooed woefully. The farmer bought a new cow to take Rosa´s
place, but Broremann couldn´t milk her first, as she was new-
comer, so he started with Gerda, now the oldest cow, and milk
the new one last, thus rural peace continued in the cow shed.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Whale
The Whale is found in seas and oceans,
Indulging there in fishlike motions,
But Science shows that Whales are mammals,
Like Jersey cows, and goats, and camels.
When undisturbed, the Whale will browse
Like camels, goats, and Jersey cows,
On food that satisfies its tongue,
Thus making milk to feed its young.
Asking no costly hay and oats,
Like camels, Jersey cows, and goats,
The Whale, prolific milk producer,
Should be our cheapest lactic juicer.
Our milk should all come from the sea,
But who, I ask, would want to be—
And here the proposition fails—
The milkmaid to a herd of Whales?
poem by Ellis Parker Butler
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Merciless men
No bulls! All bullocks!
All castrated, libido arrested,
They toil for their men-folks.
All cows! Only to yield calves,
With no bulls to mate them,
Or to beat cows’ heat.
Just to milk for the folks!
Bulls no more masculine
To fall in love with cow;
Cows, though fully feminine,
Excite no male to copulate.
Cows are delivered of their calves,
Having never gone to sex,
By seminal injections.
Bullocks are stripped of peak of sex..
Creations go without lovemaking.
Men and women of all walks,
From sixteen to sixty or more,
Learn to groom their passion,
With hormones and fashion,
To entertain their orgasm,
By nature way or manipulation,
As often as they desired,
In multitudes and with multitudes,
Whether for a child or not,
More often for no procreation.
Devices are found against confinement
And for a high erotic enjoyment.
Lovemaking goes without creation.
Animals are killed of sexual joy
To multiple the race.
Men-folks are filled of erotic joy
To limit the race.
05.02.99, Dindukal
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Peggy's The Lady Of The Hall
And will she leave the lowly clowns
For silk and satins gay,
Her woollen aprons and drab gowns
For lady's cold array?
And will she leave the wild hedge rose,
The redbreast and the wren,
And will she leave her Sunday beaus
And milk shed in the glen?
And will she leave her kind friends all
To be the Lady of the Hall?
The cowslips bowed their golden drops,
The white thorn white as sheets;
The lamb agen the old ewe stops,
The wren and robin tweets.
And Peggy took her milk pails still,
And sang her evening song,
To milk her cows on Cowslip Hill
For half the summer long.
But silk and satins rich and rare
Are doomed for Peggy still to wear.
But when the May had turned to haws,
The hedge rose swelled to hips,
Peggy was missed without a cause,
And left us in eclipse.
The shepherd in the hovel milks,
Where builds the little wren,
And Peggy's gone, all clad in silks--
Far from the happy glen,
From dog-rose, woodbine, clover, all
To be the Lady of the Hall.
poem by John Clare
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Dairy Ode
Our muse it doth refuse to sing
Of cheese made early in the spring,
When cows give milk from spring fodder
You cannot make a good cheddar.
The quality is often vile
Of cheese that is made in April,
Therefore we think for that reason
You should make later in the season.
Cheese making you should delay
Until about the first of May.
Then cows do feed on grassy field
And rich milk they abundant yield.
Ontario cannot compete
With the Northwest in raising wheat,
For cheaper there they it can grow
So price in future may be low.
Though this a hardship it may seem,
Rejoice that you have got the cream,
In this land of milk and honey,
Where dairy farmers do make money.
Utensils must be clean and sweet,
So cheese with first class can compete,
And daily polish up milk pans,
Take pains with vats and with milk cans.
And it is important matter
To allow no stagnant water,
But water from pure well or stream
The cow must drink to give pure cream.
Canadian breeds 'tis best to pair
With breeds from the shire of Ayr,
They thrive on our Canadian feed
And are for milking splendid breed.
Though 'gainst spring cheese some do mutter,
Yet spring milk also makes bad butter,
Then there doth arise the query
How to utilize it in the dairy.
The milk it floats in great spring flood
Though it is not so rich and good,
Let us be thankful for this stream
Of milk and also curds and cream.
All dairymen their highest aims
Should be to make the vale of Thames,
Where milk doth so abundant flow,
Dairyland of Ontario.
poem by James McIntyre
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Milking Time
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' load.
Of course, they cannot have realised,
That their'contents' end up being sterilised,
Sold in plastic bottles of varying sizes,
Or in cartons on which a firm advertises
The healthy benefits of natural milk.
Which slips down the throat, as smooth as silk.
Cows are the most beautiful creatures,
Have you, at any time, studied their features,
Their huge big eyes with lashes flattering,
And lusty tails, that are constantly battering
Their rear ends, keeping the flies at bay.
My admiration for them, I would like to convey.
We tend not to notice them behind their walls,
Chained securely to their milking stalls,
Each day, producing milk to fill our fridges,
While continually being pestered by scores of midges.
Poor souls! When next time you buy your milk by the quart,
Of these charming creatures, 'Please, Please give a thought! '.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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I Danced With The Ball Of Silk - By Kitty Cotton (My Great Niece) Aged 11 (Set of three poems)
There it hung gracefully in the darkness,
So beautiful I could not resist,
I shall go to the silk ball and dance with the stars.
I used the clouds as steps and the stars formed me a ladder,
And I touch the ball,
It is so silky and as smooth as milk,
I dance all night with it.
I come back home and tell the amazing news,
But of course no-one believed me,
But, I shall treasure it as my memory for ever.
For I danced with the ball of silk!
© Kitty Cotton
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Silk
Passionate touches
Chocolate kisses
Silk perfection
My body and soul on fire
My eyes glow incandescence
My mind and body sway and rock
You slip into my world
Breathing heavy and high
Fly
Bold and black connections
Silk and creamy perfections
Still life
Real love
Here we go
Lets ride
Lets dance
Lets play
Silk romance
You are my…
You are my…
You are mines
Worth more than all wealth
Greater than any king
Finally the real thing
Silk love
My skin
Milk chocolate
Your skin
Caramel
And we swirl and blend
How does it feel?
Silk feelings never end
His scent
My fragrance
Honeysuckle and milk
His power, my vulnerability
my push, his stroke, our affection…..silk…perfection.
poem by Danielle Beechum
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Alankar (Decor) -12
What Sort Is He, Bitter Or Sweet....
What sort is He, bitter or sweet to say
Pastime painter black and white, dark and bright
Alltime sadist by nature He His play
Pain or pleasure He seems be His pretext..
Ruing so dark a woman black she hued
Blighted a leaf as withers she shrivels
This day even ahead on stairs cultured
Accursed, a bad society she feels
And look, laughing pride yet another one
Glowing outside fair with conceit inside
This day that all wish for union one
Dispairs her fair skin dark on rungs down slide
Writhing in mind a worm hunting His sort
In vain blaming, praising, admits His sport
poem by Indira Renganathan
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I Am Part Of The Burden
into the green pasture
we all walk
and look for the milk
from the breasts of the cows
we drink the milk
of the years and the scores
we soon shall know
that our memories are small places
for us to live
some more
we become streams at night
in dreams
far away
we become so absorbed
in our work
throughout the day
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Free-Selector's Daughter
I met her on the Lachlan Side --
A darling girl I thought her,
And ere I left I swore I'd win
The free-selector's daughter.
I milked her father's cows a month,
I brought the wood and water,
I mended all the broken fence,
Before I won the daughter.
I listened to her father's yarns,
I did just what I `oughter',
And what you'll have to do to win
A free-selector's daughter.
I broke my pipe and burnt my twist,
And washed my mouth with water;
I had a shave before I kissed
The free-selector's daughter.
Then, rising in the frosty morn,
I brought the cows for Mary,
And when I'd milked a bucketful
I took it to the dairy.
I poured the milk into the dish
While Mary held the strainer,
I summoned heart to speak my wish,
And, oh! her blush grew plainer.
I told her I must leave the place,
I said that I would miss her;
At first she turned away her face,
And then she let me kiss her.
I put the bucket on the ground,
And in my arms I caught her:
I'd give the world to hold again
That free-selector's daughter!
poem by Henry Lawson
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Windmills and Stone Stables
Cows suffered in the days of old
For want of water and from cold,
Now of good water they have fill
For it is pumped by the windmill.
No matter how well cows were fed
They suffered cold in their board shed,
But good stone walls now them enfold,
And they are warm and safe from cold.
Now they do enjoy their fodder,
And repay with their full udder,
If bran slops you on cow bestow
Of milk it will increase the flow.
And in your efforts do not halt
But let them daily lick the salt,
And never let the dogs them chase,
But let them walk at their quiet pace.
poem by James McIntyre
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Too Fancy
He likes armani suits
To wear with ties of silk
Bought a herd of cows
To milk his own milk
I like his heart of gold, his personality
Hes just too fancy for me
Hes got a cartier and a mercedes benz
And that was all ok
When we were only friends
But when were on a date
Its all too plain to see
Hes just too fancy for me
I like a man who can roll up his jeans
And wade in the water
And still has some dreams
I like a man who can understand
Simplicity
Dont want em finely tuned
Cause quirky men are cool
The concordes caviar
Aint like balduccis food
Those thousand dollar suits
May suit society
But theyre just too fancy for me
Give me a fishing boat
Give me a wide eyed grin
Dont even try to gloat
Cause you wont even win
Dont want the courtside seats
I want my nose to bleed
Hes just too fancy for me
Hes just too fancy for me
song performed by by Debbie Gibson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Gratitude dawning
Alarm clock. The sun rises.
The buses, railways, flights are running.
There’s a bottle of milk on the doorstep.
Facts of life. Except when they’re not there.
Who lives a life of continual gratitude for life?
Hey guys, the sun which disappeared last night
has turned up again today! Wow! Relief! Let’s get down
on our knees, raise hands, voices… and
while we’re about it, put your hands together for
all morning milkmen, where they still deliver milk…
Except – no milk this morning.
Shall you telephone – politely,
with a subtext of unpractised gratitude?
I only saw the current milkman once;
said to him, this is the first time I met you…
he said, well, you’re not around at 4 ay em are you?
So you telephone. A foreignish voice from
the land of holy cows replies from
a script I guess, …your previous milkman…
left the company… late…on his way…
Morning gratitude. The cow who gives you
the love for her calves, in liquid form;
yielding too, the butter for your toast;
the pig who gave her life for your bacon rasher;
the hen who parted with her offspring for you
to kill its life in sizzling frying pan…
they’re all female, you’ve just noticed; how about
the oranges whose liquid praise of the morning sun you drink?
tomatoes, mushrooms, anybody?
maybe you should write a note to the dairy,
say, please convey to the milkman
who has now left the company for
pastures new, hur hur, and we hope
a creamy, frothing future,
our gratitude for services rendered
which we would not ourselves
be easily persuaded to take on…
yes, maybe you should.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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How do you
How do you,
Asks the chief of police,
Patrol a city
Where the butcher shops
Are guarded by vultures;
Where bulls get pregnant,
Cows are barren,
And calves give milk
Three times a day;
Where mice are boatmen
And tomcats the boats
They row;
Where frogs keep snakes
As watchdogs,
And jackals
Go after lions?
Does anyone know
What I’m talking about?
Says Kabir.
A Cows Rear Leg (Fun Poem 57)
A cowbell sounds for milking time,
a milkmaid on her three-legged stool,
remembering all the time that golden rule.
Never get behind a cows rear leg
as it could give you a nasty bump.
A jet of milk fires into the bucket
as she caresses the utter teats
with her soft hands.
Always watchful and wary
of the cows rear leg.
29 January 2008
poem by David Harris
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Milk Cow Blues
Well I woke up this mornin
Looked outdoors
I can tell my milk cow
I can tell by the way she lows
If you see my milk cow
Please drive her on home
Cause I aint had no milk and butter
Since that cows been gone
Well you gotta treat me right honey
Day by day
Get out your little prayer book
Get down upon your knees and pray
Cause youre gonna need me
Youre gonna need my help someday
Lord youre gonna be sorry
Ou, you treated me this a way
Aw, now take it away boys
Sail on, sail on, sail on little gal, sail on
Sail on, sail on, sail on little gal, sail on
Youre gonna keep right on sailing
Till you lose your happy home
Well good evening
Dont that sun look good going down
I said well good evening
Dont that sun look good going down
Dont that ol army cot look lonely
When your lover aint no place around
Well I tried everything baby
To get along with you
Now Im gonna tell you
What Im gonna do
Im gonna stop my cryinõ
Gonna leave you alone
And if you dont think Im leavinõ big momma
Just count the days Im gone
You aint gonna see me
You aint gonna see my sweet face no more
Lord you gonna be wondering honey
Where in this world Ive gone
Milk cow blues
song performed by by George Strait
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Cleopatra the Queen of Beauty
Cleopatra the queen of beauty
had the softest of skin,
Enticing Anthony
into a lovers spin
Alas a rash suddenly
covered her slinky body
A physician cried
‘Oh my God the only cure is a bath of milk
To bring your skin
back to the feel of silk
A servant set off
on a fast camel train
With milk galore his trip
was not in vain
The bath was prepared,
“Your majesty I have your milk
did you want it pasteurised? ”
“No up to my chin will do”
poem by Ken e Hall
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This was a dairy cow, and dairy cows have IDs on them. The ID was traced back to the farm in Washington. It's a dairy farm. And that farm now has been quarantined, and the owners have been very cooperative in doing that.
quote by Ann Veneman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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