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.