Muscled mass, horn of plenty,
cattle - my plates empty.
light on leather hides,
off those shoes, walk not in pride,
not your backs make slow to speed,
not their eyes with want or greed.
Lyre-like horns, graze not your ego,
gives form and life’s libido,
glad they lie in heat of day,
Cattle lido - graze and stay.
your beef then pick a bone,
A Suffolk field is now their home.
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