by jerrontables

The pasture is sweet.

Our drops are rank.

We giggle and greet

The swank the swank.

We come from our mothers

To grind on each others

And growing of wheat

Forsake forsake.


The outlook is bleak.

The slank is blank.

We offer the teat

To crank to crank.

We run from the farmer,

That vegetable charmer,

And taketh our meat

To bank to bank.