Bovines make cream that's soaring
From their udders; then it's stored
In the lampless lair of fridge; it's
There with grapes, plums, wraps, chard, gourd,
Creamy juice that's great for whit'ning
Of the vestments, on them poured.
That moo juice starches on.

Glory, glory heifer mooer,
Horrid horses have a shoer,
"Pour me, pour me. . .have a few o'
Those juices": farmer John.

He won't drink skim--tastes like water,
Only virtue is, it's damp;
It is bilge that has been altered,
Gives him heaves. . .ensues a cramp.
It's not pleasing. . .vile like rennet
Or the Pimm's bequeathed by gramps.
And whey makes barfing John.

Glory, glory heifer mooer,
"Pour me, pour me--have a few o',
Glorious, glorious, have allure,
Those juices"; parched is John.

They are fed with silage; goes well
Wit' the berm-grown rows of weal.
Corn's their meal, makes them contented,
As on the Carnation seal.
And some he's go--scorn the women--
For them with serpentine zeal.
No rod in vache for John.

No-way, no-way heifer mooer!
Sordid, sordid thoughts, impure.
Sorry, sorry, he won't do 'er,
Nixed screwing vache has John.

Sweet, it's bounding forth in bucket;
Let's have leche when we eat.
We'll be sipping as stouthearted men;
Milk don't mean we're effete.
He'll be dripping Skol and gin in
'cause he can't stand that hooch neat.
For 'nog he's parched, is John

Glory, glory heifer mooer,
Pour in, pour in haul o' booze, sir.
Hornless, horny; has a new urge--
She's moved a part of John.

"I see beauty 'mongst the lilies,
Nice with horns, accostin' me.
And I hunger for this bovine,
Thought fat-figured moo is she.
Can't deny, I'm mighty horny
Who denies his cow vow? Me!"
His rod in vache has John.

Scoring, scoring with this mooer,
Boring, boring, nearly through 'er,
Bovine, bovine, he will do 'er.
He's wooing vache is John.