Do they watch me trot to the top of the hill,
the cows who are milling and mooing?
I bellow and blow and paw the ground
and make a sort of a snorting sound
and toss my terrible horns around-
(The cows-have they stopped their chewing?)
I'm striking a pose; I'm standing still
as a statue here on the top of the hill.
I flick my tail, as I stately stand,
at a fool of a fly who has dared to land
on the royal rump of a bull so grand-
(Are they watching whatever I'm doing?)
-Alice Schertle