Graphic by Billie
Cattle Fever
They call it cattle fever,
Those who haven't got it do.
Its victims think it's heaven
Just to own a cow or two.
It's a virus or a microbe
Or a germ or other thing
That makes a man buy cattle
For the torture that they bring.
Once he becomes an owner,
They deal him naught but pain.
He thinks it's all a pleasure;
Can't get it through his brain.
They break into the neighbor's corn,
His oats or grass or hay;
He puts them into his corral
Then sends a bill for pay.
He's with them in the snowstorms,
In the mud and in the rain.
He gets them out of bog-holes,
And they walk right in again.
He pulls his rope and throws 'em
To doctor them up good.
They don't appreciate him AT ALL;
They'd horn him if they could.
Then for market he does load 'em
Into his shining truck,
Right out of green-grass pastures
With their tails a'swishin' muck.
Ere the truck's half loaded
The deck's a sea of dung,
And the sides are fairly splattered
Where spurts of green stuff hung.
While he pushes here and pushes there
To keep them safe from harm,
They swish their mucky tails
'Crost his mouth and down his arm.
Through darkness and through snow and mud,
He hauls them to the sale
And fixes two flat tires
In a forty-mile gale.
The sale ring's almost empty;
The buyers aren't there
'Cause they've all gone a'hunting
For pheasant, deer, or bear.
The auctioneer begins his spiel
To sell the "victim's" crop.
"I'm sorry, Joe, it would be more,
If it weren't for the drop."
He pulls out bills and ledgers
And those keeping track of time.
If it weren't for his wife's good job,
He wouldn't have a dime.
~ Lloyd Gerber ~
© 1996
