Getting Milked By Hand Poem by James McLain

Life is not so short nor long,
the farmer's wife, she said.
Wisdom learned, the chicken kept it's head.
His yellow beak, it point's the way
her husband sitting in his rocking chair, is dead.
Dancing maidens,
in their see through frocks, lovely but threadbare.
Milking cows, each wait their morning, turn.
Polished on a dirty floor, the second one calls out.
Lot's of milk sprayed out from them, the cake
turned out all right.