The cattle are fed
children well wed
and the cellar propped up
by needle and thread

while we walk and talk
over boxes of chalk
that the children climb up
like rings of beanstalk

I’m heralded here
and derided o’er there
while the siblings of neighbours
shoot clay without care

“I’m a pragmatist now,”
said the pig to the cow
“the rush of the pneumatics
blows my fat mind somehow.”

Red wine turns so sour
chiming with a twelfth hour
and the robust are napping
‘neath a frown so damn dour

yet we walk and we chat
of the dog and the cat
and their well-being is paramount
though we’ve grown so damn fat.

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