Ah yes, Milk, that pleasurable liquid that flows from a cow,

Drips unless squeezed by a farmer, with a special know-how

He pulls at a teat and aims at a pail,

While warming his hands, at the risk of a tail


They seem to like to be ridded of the stuff

But cold fingers is more than enough

To cause a swing of that tailbone whip

That will knock you off your stool, or cut your lip.


Who can you blame if the cow is incensed

When you grab at her recklessly and cause quite a mess

How would you like it if grabbed down there

By a big, rough knuckled fool with scraggly hair


All they ask for is a little concern

That after a few tries, for you just to learn

How to pull and to squeeze with a turn of the wrist

And not to splash on the floor, if you should miss


Because she knows that before me or you

She had easily fed a new calf or two

Having them suckle is a pleasure of its own

And their little calf mouths never use teeth or a bone


But they are greedy, and in a hurry to drink

And to them their hunger is important, I think

So they struggle and push each other out of the way

So many long days before they settle for hay


Mom getting bruised from many a butt

Of their little calf heads, right in her gut

Then they end up giving mom a break down below

As the farmer comes along to see their stomachs hang low


So he takes on the task of finishing her off

Easing her overfilled milk sack, so tender and soft.


Barbara Blackcinder


About Barbara Blackcinder

I am a poet/writer with a need for words. There are so many out there that I haven't used yet. They define all reality and mine when you read those from me.
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2 Responses to Milking

  1. Wish there was a “loved” button! 😉

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