We would remember Les Murray’s cows
And the horny bulls that mounted them.
Our cow teats are as full, tails flychasing
As our own moon shines a water trough.
Our cows do not give a damn how holy
Their piss is and therapeutic their dung.
Their religion revolves on a nightly cud
And the bulls that grow horny on them.
The humans have their bulls to mount
When they grow horny on glass of milk.
Holy books advise how to dispose cows
Before they turn shoes and handbags.
(remembering Les Murray’s poem The Cows on Killing Day)