Under My Skim
We cows do have a hard, hard life
We’re out in wind and rain
And herded daily out to grass
Then back to shed again.
We’re driven over nasty roads
Through horrid slush and mud
And hardly have the chance between
To quietly chew the cud.
Our udders once knew maidens’ hands
Not soul-less rubber pumps
No wonder we are moo-ved to tears
And often in the dumps.
But still our milk is of the best
The cream as you might say
The White Stuff is the nation’s drink
And long we pray may stay.
Yet there are those so unimpressed
They snub us at their whim
And choose to pour into their cup
The stuff that’s known as skim.
The goodness has been drained away
Just leaving thin white water
We might as well just give up now
And trundle off to slaughter.