John Brown's Farm 9/07

Another eccentric day
A veritable festival of feelings
At John Brown's farm

The ranch hands don't direct
Their wolf whistles at human females
They save their crude comments and catcalls
For the beautiful, painted mare
Due to give birth
To the spring foal

The greatest fear of the blind rooster
Who crows at midday
Isn't the sound of the axe
Smashing into the chopping block
It's the inexplicable howling
Of the border collies
When the moon ascends the night sky

The cows pass the time
While passively attached to milking machines
Scoffing at the size of each other's udders
And making off hand remarks
About the repellent features
Of the short legged, stout, woolen creatures

The sheep return the favor
By sneering at the ugly behemoths
Who block their paths
As they determinedly make their way
To the shack with the bright knives
And the blackened windows

Meanwhile, back at the main house
The liberal opinion of the commentator on television
Is enough to make the senile grandfather
Pee on himself in front of the fireplace

While the proud proprietor sounds off
In opposition to the creation
Of the agricultural arm of the university
What will they think of next?
He shouts to nobody
A tractor repair school
For city slickers
Who have never ridden one?

Five minutes after he turns in
The field mice gather
On the kitchen counter
To feast on cheese and corn meal
And listen to heavy metal
On WSOU until an hour before dawn
At which time they scatter
Back into their comfortable abodes
And sleep the day away
Underneath their official flannel
Black Sabbath fan club blankets

The mentally unbalanced housecat
Is so confused by this chain of events
That he slinks his way into John Brown's bedroom
And curls up into a ball of furry anxiety
In his homemade kitty bed
Next to the heating vent
And fervently prays for rain