“It’s Cows for Trevor"

It’s cows for Trevor.
Bovine delight
is not bulls snarling,
but cows all night.
No toros he’ll tolerate --
it’s cows for Trevor,
kine loves he’ll sate.

When to him some moo
cow happens to tender
a view of her aperture,
his pelvic pender
grows hard as moonshine.
His lust for poon (kine),
tho’, isn’t queer--
on bulls or steer,
he’ll pass.

It’s cows for Trevor.
Bovines delight.
He thinks they’re darling.
This boy’s not right.
To burros he can’t relate --
just cows for Trevor,
kine loves he’ll sate.

Dust flies in billows
from meadow commotions
when he seeks moo love
and doesn’t veau shun.
When moo moms bite, he
gets alarmed, takes flight. He
just heads then
for cattle pen
to play.

It’s cows for Trevor.
Bovines delight
when, downing Carling,
he’s drunk at night.
A thorough inebriate,
it’s cows for Trevor,
kine loves he’ll sate.

“Oh wow,” says Trevor,
“kine love’s first rate!

With cows forever
I long to mate."

It’s cows for Trevor,
kine loves he’ll sate.