Buttermilk (Children) Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

You leave your room, it's full of clutter,
go to the barn to milk the cow.
And, in a while you're making butter,
only the clever do know how.

When you convert the cow's own milk
into soft butter with your hands,
the finished product, smooth as silk,
once lived inside pink udder glands

it does leave something you can use,
a runny, yellow-speckled fluid,
which you can change if you so choose
into a product. If you knew it

you've tasted flavour like no other,
a different consistency.
They named it after its own mother,
so, can you guess what it could be?

It's buttermilk, I told you first,
go, have a glass, just close your eyes.
It's what I recommend for thirst,
for little girls and little guys.