The cows go moo.
Who is it to?
Mooing you?
They sure sound blue.
Know they're food.
Dream to choose, not to lose,
Eat grass, just cruise.
Near the daises, woo.
Where the babes are taken . Few clues.
No truck sign reading calves for baking. How cruel.
Gentle farmers pretend. Cowboys shrug forsaking loves rules.
Do not yearn to be cut to the bone.
Learning around having a good old roam.
Find a better feed combination but not to soon,
for a trip to the abattoir everything ruins.
Cold wet days worsen their moods.
Separated young unaware on what to do
suckled by rubber, miss mothers coo.
They gather together in chorus and brood.
Piecing future fragments true.
All realise their fate, they boo.