Plop, Plop, Plop - -
As they drop,
Meadow Muffins by another name
Brings one's vocabulary to shame.
Product of an ungulate's digestion
Four stomachs and then some is the suggestion,
From the cud-chewing quadruped
Wild, tame or in-between, instead.
Meadow Muffins have a character all their own
As they pile up like some English scone
At first warm, fragrant and smooth to touch
Then when dried; nothing much.
Sometimes when the grass is new
They in a line are outward spewed,
Other times when the grass is dry
Hard to see how they are passed by.
Favorite home for flies and such
Which makes, for birds, an easy touch,
When the maggots arise.
Then it's a feast before their eyes.
Tumble bugs, as they are called,
Harvest the muffin in a ball,
Roll it up and away
To save it for another day.
But for those unaware,
It's best to take especial care,
On the shoe is no place for it to be,
For the nose to smell and the eye to see.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem