Do not ask for whom they moo
or why they stand and chew and chew.
They've got their plans. Their heads are clear.
Their future moves from mouth to rear,
somewhat like ours, like ours I mean,
who see no more than what we've seen,
who do our best till noon then run
to eat that beef between those buns
then do our best into the night
before the TV's tiny light.
They munch the purple clover in
then splatter it right out again—
not quite as pretty as it was,
at most a place for flies to buzz.
But, God, they're stable on four feet,
no philosophical elite
to make them wonder why they chew
and urinate the way they do
or sit and ponder what they're worth.
No, cows just occupy the earth—
the same earth, by the way, which one
fine day will melt into the sun.