By Baxter Black
I know you’ve prob’ly asked yourself, what’s Christmas to a cow?
You’ve not! Well maybe, just perchance I’ve got you thinkin’ now,
When we march out on Christmas morn like nothin’s goin’ on,
Has Yuletide struck the night before and disappeared by dawn?
Were plastic sleeves a’hangin’ up around the calvin’ shed?
Did visions of molasses blocks cavort inside her head?
And did she lay awake all night tensed up anticipating
Or, in excitement, milk her bed by accident, while waiting?
Do cows pretend to be just cows, devoid of all intrigues
But really lead a secret life like women’s bowling leagues?
Did we just miss the mistletoe? Did all the clues elude us?
Does she believe in Santa Claus or just Santa Gertrudis?
And if we looked would we see sign of reindeer in the pen
Or would we just convince ourselves the goat got out again?
And after we’d all gone to bed would they join in a hymn
And sing that little manger song they learned in Bethlehem?
I guess that it don’t matter much if cows believe or not.
We’ll fork her out a flake of hay and head back in a trot
To celebrate our Christmas Day and all that we espouse
And when we say our dinner grace, we’ll thank him for the cows.