Mean While Back At The Ranch Poem by James McLain

Some cows need identifying, mine doesn't.
My brand of beef carries no stress at all
they are carried flipped dipped while a
determination is made of thier cantor.
If they wobble to the left a bit more yeast.
If the waddle to the right tasters choice.
All of my cows produce the finest milk one
gives butter strait from the utter one other utter
makes just fine wines.
Ranching agrees with me life like no other none
would I have.
We are quit simple and fine humble folk of the land.