There are some cows
You might have noticed them,
As you were driving down the interstate
In rural Oklahoma.
Fistulated cows,
We call them,
Because of the special little tube,
Uniting their guts with the world outside.
And sometimes people reach right inside,
Fish around in the juices,
And pull out chunks,
Just for science and medicine, of course.
Because there’s this thing called transfaunation,
Where what is squeezed from those chunks,
Is put into the sick cows,
And makes them better.
It rests them,
Puts them right,
Rights what all is wrong,
With their ruminators.
And did you know that cows have four stomachs,
And I’m not satisfied with any explanation
As to why,
It just doesn’t work in my mind.
–––––
Sometimes, when I am in a disgusting mood,
I think that I am like those cows.
I think that there is a hole in my chest,
Not quite my stomach, but still.
Not quite the same as getting through a stomach wall, either,
You have to get through a wall of ribs for this fistula.
You have to be able to wrap your hand around my heart,
And squeeze, like a chunk of half ruminated grass.
And squeeze, until all the good things are slopping in a bucket,
Until there’s nothing left but pulp and chlorophyll.
Until there’s enough in the bucket to fix the sickness in you,
I hope it heals you right.
I hope it makes it all better,
Because it makes it all the worse for me.
You might have noticed them,
As you were driving down the interstate
In rural Oklahoma.
Fistulated cows,
We call them,
Because of the special little tube,
Uniting their guts with the world outside.
And sometimes people reach right inside,
Fish around in the juices,
And pull out chunks,
Just for science and medicine, of course.
Because there’s this thing called transfaunation,
Where what is squeezed from those chunks,
Is put into the sick cows,
And makes them better.
It rests them,
Puts them right,
Rights what all is wrong,
With their ruminators.
And did you know that cows have four stomachs,
And I’m not satisfied with any explanation
As to why,
It just doesn’t work in my mind.
–––––
Sometimes, when I am in a disgusting mood,
I think that I am like those cows.
I think that there is a hole in my chest,
Not quite my stomach, but still.
Not quite the same as getting through a stomach wall, either,
You have to get through a wall of ribs for this fistula.
You have to be able to wrap your hand around my heart,
And squeeze, like a chunk of half ruminated grass.
And squeeze, until all the good things are slopping in a bucket,
Until there’s nothing left but pulp and chlorophyll.
Until there’s enough in the bucket to fix the sickness in you,
I hope it heals you right.
I hope it makes it all better,
Because it makes it all the worse for me.