I love this day,
the grass at my knees,
the buzz of the bees,
the fluzz of the flies,
switching my tail
and making pies.
It is so, so fine
to be bovine
to be a cow
right here
right now.
Shoulders, chest, knees and toes—
the rest of Richard slid up his nose.
Richard was in
his half-picked snout,
which was completely inside out.
He looked like a booger,
a big gloopy blob,
an ooey, gluey, goobery glob.
Wellington Wallaby Withers was most disgruntled.
Curled in his basket by the hearth, he groaned, "Fire's out, Master Horace. Can't bake my back."
Master Horace was asleep in his chair. Sn-ooo-re.
The maddening smell of freshly made meatloaf hung about the house. "But my bowl," Wellington said, "is empty." And, oh, how his nose smarted! Honey, that sour sneak of a cat, had swatted him again.
