Being Milked By Hand Poem by James McLain

There is no short way around this
the farmer's wife, he said.
When wisdom is the chicken keeps its head.
Yellow beak it's point is sharp well made.
Her husband sitting in his rocking chair he read.
Maidens in shear cotton frocks, threadbare.

Milking holstein cows, each wait there turn.
A polished floor well swept the other one calls out.
When three cups of milk I loaned to them.
The cake turned out alright.