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by Con
Rated: E · Poetry · Animal · #2207331
When it comes to breeding, this heifer knows her own mind
The Royal Wedding

When I was a lad, still in my teens,
To keep myself in bacon an beans,
I took a job at a dollar a day,
On the farm of Senator Clyde MacNeigh.

The farm was one of high repute,
It steeds were all noble, its lambkins all cute,
Its fields were prolific, it’s herds were all fat,
And barns were cleaned daily with panache and eclat.

A competitive breeder of flora and fauna,
MacNeigh’d won many trophies, but not all he’s gonna,
For he owns Princess Roona of Rottergodam,,
The prettiest heifer e’er seen by man.

Her credentials impeccable, her lineage pure,
She’d conceive only champions, but one first must ensure,
She meets just the right fella with a proud family tree,
Equal at least to her pedigree.

Prince Hendrik van Haarlem lives not far away,
On the splendiferous farm of Schleswig von Kaye,
With a pedigree longer than verses writ here,
And betrothal contracted since many a year.

So, one sunny morning, it came thus to pass,
That a curious whimsy beset our fair lass,
There was something she wanted, she knew not quite what,
She diddled and daddled, decorum forgot.

Ah, said MacNeigh, I’ve seen this before,
And our Princess this morning proclaims nothing more,
Then she craves male attention,
To end her abstention,

From procreativity. I’ll call up von Kaye,
Who’ll brook no delay,
In calling a meeting,
For time is fast fleeting.

Tomorrow Prince Hendrik departs for P.Q.,
But first, we must see that our virginal two,
Hold true to our deal for a conjugal tryst,
One that ‘tis sworn shall not be missed.

How, you ask, can that be done,
With trucks an’ trailers every one,
Away in Brandon at the fair,
Leaving us without a wheel to spare.

That matters not a whit,
For the stars say, “This is it.”
The planets and her hormones harmonize,
So I’m counting on you guys,

To help the Princess keep this date,
Which happily will consummate,
This lucrative betrothal pact,
So now it’s time to act.

A flurry of milkmaids then burst on the scene,
With brushes and bottles and a shampoo machine,
The perfumed and polished, bedecked her with bows,
And beads and brass bangles from T-bone to nose.

When opportunity comes knocking,
There’s nothing wrong with walking,
So with just a rope and halter,
We’ll lead Princess to the altar.

It’s a little far by highway,
But there’s an easy byway,
As the crow flies is the route to take,
A cross-country stroll will be a piece of cake.

In view of what he’s learned,
And of all the trust he’s earned,
This leading role is offered,
To our new Assistant Cowherd.

So get your gear together,
Free Princess from her tether,
And without undue delay,
Get this wedding under way.

Take this pink parasol to shade her from sun,
And put on a clean shirt, if you have one,
Tie rope to the halter and start on your way,
God bless you and keep you this auspicious day.

With glowing heart and solemn will, I led the Bride along,
Past pastures green and water still, oft breaking into song,
The Princess mooed most plaintively. She sings Adieu, I thought,
How wrong I was about those moos I never have forgot.

Her moos were news to attentive ears perked up all o’er the lea,
Of a love-struck bossy feeling saucy and wanting company,
A motley herd clearly heard her message, fair and full,
Among them was a base-born beast, Brutus, a bastard bull.

Ragged, scruffy bovine trash, but agile as a goat,
Horns long and curved like scimitars, a CPR red coat,
He raised his head and cocked his ears, and sniffed the air’s portend,
Switched his tail and pawed the earth, assessing that Come hither scent.

In his zeal to propagate,
‘Twas naught for him to hop a gate,
And I saw him clear it like a deer,
And when he charged at me, my will give way to fear.

I think that I shall never see,
A sight more welcome than the tree,
Up which I fled. The tree whose leafy arm was spread,
A precious yard o’er el Toro’s head.

‘Twas an absolute disgrace,
To see Roona rapt in foul embrace,
And Brutus in such fulsome measure,
Wreaking his bestial pleasure,

On sweet Roona of Rottergodam,
My shouts and curses weren’t worth a damn,
Brutus simply had his way,
On that bleak and dismal day.

Brutus crowned his quick romance,
With a wild and whirling vict’ry dance,
With hoof and horn tore up the earth,
Hurled sods and clods for all he’s worth.

He tore and trampled left and right,
Bucked and balanced with all his might,
And charged the tree that was my perch,
A tall and sturdy clump of birch.

He reared and lunged and rammed his head,
Between twin trunks that had grown to spread,
From a common base to form a V
That trapped him, just as he deserved to be.

His struggles were to no avail,
He could but bawl and flail his tail,
The Princess stood by patiently,
Waiting till I forsook my tree.

The common word was that von Kaye,
Had wedding preparations under way,
With chilled champagne and canapés,
And spitted quail and crème brûlée‘s.

I really didn’t want to miss,
A celebration such as this,
So I tidied Roona’s disarray,
And we continued on our way.

Should I tell or hold my tongue?
Clyde MacNeigh would have me hung,
For cowardly neglect of duty,
Surrendering his Holstein cutie,

To a fate far worse than death,
So I thought I’d save my breath.
The facts will some day come to light,
And not in pristine black and white.

But probably in red,
That day I’d face with mighty dread.
I’d better far be far away,
Beyond the reach of Clyde MacNeigh.

We entered von Kaye’s wide demesne,
Awed and humbled by the scene,
A bearded seneschal bowed us in,
And welcomed us like long lost kin.

We were led to Hendrik’s private suite,
Where he was munching Shredded Wheat,
He raised his head inquiringly,
Then turned away dismissively.

Looked down his nose, as if to say,
Cawn’t you come another day?
He was the blasé dilettante,
Spurning our sweet debutante.

A dozen men then gathered round,
Scratched their heads and spat and frowned,
Debating whether push or pull,
Would motivate that reluctant bull.

If he don’t do what he oughter,
He’ll be a candidate for slaughter.
Poor Hendrik never saw the threat,
From expectations left unmet.

Then Roona felt she’d had enough,
Of this highfalutin’ stuff,
She curled her lip as if she swore,
That she’d put up with nothing more,

Whirled around and tossed her head,
Vowing that she’d not be wed,
A sudden kick right to his brisket,
Persuaded Hendrik not to risk it.

The wedding guests, I now can laugh,
Scuttled off, like wind-blown chaff,
While Roona started on her way,
Heading home to chez MacNeigh.

She put on such a burst of speed,
There was no way that I could lead,
All that I could do was follow,
All the way to Howell’s Hollow.

Where Brutus languished, still held fast,
Mulling o’er his checkered past,
And smiling at the memory,
Of chasing me up the big birch tree.

There I caught Roona’s trailing rope,
And feeling that I now could cope,
Sat on a stump to think things through,
And consider what was best to do.

Roona showed great solicitude,
Toward that randy little dude,
She circled round and licked his nose,
And sniffed at him as at a rose.

And I myself could but admire,
That tough and spunky ball of fire,
No pampered prince nor grand marquis,
But just a guy like you or me.

I got the Princess home at last,
Watered, fed and penned up fast,
With her friends both young and old,
To whom her tale I’m sure she told.

I couldn’t leave things as they were,
With lonely Brutus stuck out there,
There was absolutely no excuse,
I simply had to cut him loose.

It was near the close of day,
With Swedish saw, I made my way,
Back to Brutus and the tree,
And, in a jiffy, cut him free.

He stretched and yawned and staggered round,
Flexed his joints and, in a bound,
Charged again at me,
And chased me back up my tree.

He kept me there nigh till dawn,
Clutching the branch that I sat on.
Because I didn’t sleep a wink,
It gave me lots of time to think.

I can tell what’s short or long,
Far easier than what’s right or wrong.
But guys like me don’t need to sit,
Where bosses think we ought to fit,

MacNeigh considered Brutus junk,
But that ain’t what ol’ Brutus thunk.
I wonder if there mightn’t be,
A lesson there for guys like me.

When autumn came I took my pay,
And turned my back on Clyde MacNeigh.
I bummed around by road and rail,
And not till now ever told my tale.

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