Old Bull

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"The Old Bull"

(Note: This poem was actually written by an old bull who couldn't spell too well....)

I'm just an 0l' bull, but the fourman don't know

that the werklode is way out of hand,

he keeps addin' kows to this herd that I serve.

I'm the bizziest bull in the land.

There once was a tyme I could set my alarm

for the reas'nable hour of eight,

but the boss's intenshun to bild up the herd

means, at siks, I am wakin' too late.

From wee hours of morn, I am doin' my thing,

and, at midnite, I'm still werkin' hard.

I'm totally sinyoo and mussel and horn,

ain't got leezhure time bilding up lard.

No tyme for a sitcom; can't go to a show,

'cause my skedjewel ain't got any breaks-

keep poppin' Viagra and vitamin E.

I'm just doin' wutever it takes.

It ain't at all pursonal. Like any job,

I am hureed and rusht 'til it's over.

I know that for eech, single minit I save,

I'll have that much mor tyme to munch klover.

Can't even remember my furst luvin' date,

when my service was mixt with afekshun.

My purpus, in life, is to werk 'til it's late,

with my pretty-near-worn-out erekshun.

A bull ain't, at all, what it's cracked up to be.

There are times I've wished I were a cow...

They've got leezhur and coughy brakes, tyme to relacks.

(Why, I can't even chat with you now.)

For the boss bot more kows. He's unloadin' them now.

I'm unhappy and know what I'll find:

I'll use each wakin' moment, performin' my task,

but my fate's that I'll get more behind.