Fromage, C'Est Trois Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

A cow displays to us her udder,
an asset pleasing to the eye.
It is the origin of butter,
how so you ask, I'll tell you why.

Inside the udder is a juice
of colour white and pleasant taste.
the hormones of the cow induce
production of it, without waste.

Had I been God I would have made
arrangements for the bovine queen
to spend her daytime in the shade
until she has a calf to wean.

In order to ensure production
of milk when little one has grown,
and in the absence of strong suction
she'd find herself all on her own.

The time would come for lengthy walks
around the paddocks and the trees.
She'd eat the grasses and the stalks
and swing her udder in the breeze.

The swinging, Isaac Newton says,
creates momentous agitation,
it's when an udder bumps and sways
it culminates in cavitation.

And, at that point, what once was fluid
with creamy texture, also warm,
has turned into, well, yes, you knew it,
a solid mass after the storm

Now. Udders hang below cows' knees
close to the grass and thus the ground,
where dandelions grow, and bees
along with certain germs are found.

Their task is pre-ordained, concerning
essential parts of bovine juice.
They dive into the gently churning
fresh milk the udders still produce.

So, next to that big chunk of butter
activities are underway.
You find, inside the swollen udder
fresh butter, cheese, a bit of whey.

As you can see, I am a God,
filled with exceptional ideas.
And don't you find it rather odd?
I have a voice that no one hears.