tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5590457662412508233.post748205404951000065..comments2023-11-03T03:49:08.187-05:00Comments on Where Poetry Goes to Die: The Eighth Day of ChristmasW.B. Picklesworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03187309512838841997noreply@blogger.comBlogger3125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5590457662412508233.post-67325833336925973002012-01-02T14:26:50.167-06:002012-01-02T14:26:50.167-06:00And a happy New Year to you and your family alsoAnd a happy New Year to you and your family alsoJohnhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/10361837738099549106noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5590457662412508233.post-9163351164219258762012-01-02T10:15:03.818-06:002012-01-02T10:15:03.818-06:00Now that's what I call a comment! Happy New Y...Now that's what I call a comment! Happy New Year, John.W.B. Picklesworthhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/03187309512838841997noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5590457662412508233.post-64063305509902144202012-01-02T09:03:11.371-06:002012-01-02T09:03:11.371-06:00An udderly ridiculous supposition I say
Milking ma...An udderly ridiculous supposition I say<br />Milking maids’ hands are as course as the hay<br />With modern machines all sterile and warm<br />The life of the bovine must surely conform<br /><br />I see on the TV - on each TV night<br />Stories of cows, oh what a sight!<br />From happy cows come some great cheese<br />Wisconsin and California say all their’s appease<br /><br />The only cows I see rebellious and mad<br />All work for a chicken chain, unless I’ve been had?<br />They are walking all over, making a fuss<br />Eat Mor Chikin, I’ve had just enoughJohnhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/10361837738099549106noreply@blogger.com