by TS Eliot Cows Of all the beasts that God allows In England’s green and pleasant land, I most of all dislike the Cows: Their ways I do not understand. It puzzles me why they should stare At me, who am so innocent; Their stupid gaze is hard to bear — It’s positively truculent. I’m very inconspicuous And scarlet ties I never wear; I’m not a London Transport Bus, And yet at me they always stare. You may reply, to fear a Cow Is Cowardice the rustic scorns; But still your reason must allow That I am weak, and she has horns. But most I am afraid when walking With country dames in brogues and tweeds, Who will persist in hearty talking And stopping to discuss the breeds. To country people Cows are mild, And flee from any stick they throw; But I’m a timid town bred child, And all the cattle seem to know. But when in fields alone I stroll, Oh then in vain their horns are tossed, In vain their bloodshot eyes they roll — Of me they shall not make their boast. Beyond the hedge or five-barred gate, My sober wishes never stray; In vain their prongs may lie in wait, For I can always run away! Or I can take sanctuary In friendly oak or apple tree.
Posted on: Sun, 19 Oct 2014 02:59:18 +0000
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