Bovine Saddness

Bovine Sadness

Where will the Dung Beetle lay her eggs?
All God's bovine providers laid to rest.
The sinister pyres smoulder on yonder hill
And burial tombs go deeper still.

Spring keeps her respectful hush.
This is not the time to make the meadows lush.
The very ground must have its mourn
The keepers of the flock look on, tired and worn.

Frustrated anger seeks a place to fly
Who's to blame and why?
Some scapegoat will sure be found
But that will not appease the silent ground

We all must share the final blame
No more to fan the accusing flame.
We are but shepherds of the global flock
And if we want to harvest still
We must lend a hand the flame to chill.