That round, mound, ground surrounds
and is secured by fence and hesitance.
Everyone is waiting for someone else to go,
but the cows mow.

They do not have a care
for our commuter vows,
so they mow what grows.
An observance of an ancestral gift:
what nature grows,
she mows.

What the cows do not know,
is that human stomachs growl.
It’s such a shame.
They seemed like such good-natured cows,
the only souls of the emerald industry.
Their dressed carcasses will be
a momentary luncheon litany,
a price upon price
for their lack of telepathy.

These mounds now turn to flat ground,
flat, fat ground.
I am bored.
They are gored.


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