Bellow farm-fresh kine, content.
Your cud you'll gulp and chaw again.
'Cause that's how ruminants are eating.
Sometimes they stand when they are sleeping.
The divisions in their stomach handle grain--
Not chow mein.
Digging those mounds of silage.

There's heavy cream--it helps build bones.
Some like it clotted, spread on scones.
Eat that hay, so fresh and sweetly damp.
And when you holler, more comes up the ramp.
Bovine guys will get stabbed, turned to hash,
Or turned out to fight.
Those tits are right.
So nosh those mounds of silage.

Sometimes a hay-dead blight will soar:
Ten thousand acres gone, or more.
Steep-priced commodities stop peaking,
Silage futures--Exchange down creeping,
Agribusiness, "wrong," say folks, who dump their shares.
Much despair.
And combines get bad mileage.

Fields cannot afford to grow
Silage--economy slow.
No more curds of cheese white will reach you.
Shaken farmers wail and screech, "boo-hoo!"
No cow turds of silage kerplops fell.
Bankruptcy--
There's a smell of fileage.

Then big-eating cows were slayed. . .
Into T-bone chops were made.
Then a sign appeared in the store, 'n'
It said, "domestic beef"--ain't foreign.
And the signs pointed to record profits. . .
Folks smitten, by this beef enthralled.
From now empty stalls,
They whisked out the last grounds of silage.